


Jeeves and the Artistic Verisimilitude

by PurpleFluffyCat



Series: Jeeves and the Artistic Verisimilitude [1]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Humor, Coming Out, Drama, Drama & Romance, F/F, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 23:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5646397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleFluffyCat/pseuds/PurpleFluffyCat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Surely, one would think nothing could be more relaxing for a young Wooster than a week spent by the seaside? - Golf and sand-castle building without an aunt in sight!</p><p>One may think so, indeed, but the combination of several 'friends' with their own agendas, a theatrical production and the mysterious designs of my very own valet conspired to make that week spent in Spindleythorpe-on-sea one of the most memorable and life-changing of the lot..."</p><p>There will be fortune tellers! And Gilbert and Sullivan! And (the chaps are rather glad to hear), plenty of romantic fluffy goodness!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Escape and Entrapment

Aunts are the absolute giddy limit! - That also goes for mothers and grandmothers, it seems - for those who have an à la carte selection of fierce female relatives.

Indeed, I learned one Sunday morning, at a time far too early for any right-thinking chap to expect distressing news, that a terrifying collectivised descension of the esteemed dowagers was due in the metrop. the very next day. 

It was all in the name of some society or other. Lace-making, perhaps. Or was it tapestry? At any rate, it matters little what the flock of ancestral harpies were actually _making_ at their annual congregation, for, regardless of activity, it was clear that _match_ -making would be pretty high on their list. It therefore also followed that yours truly would be one of the unfortunate suspects to be summoned forth and given marching orders in the direction of the altar. 

In order to prevent this interference in his happy bachelor existence, B. Wooster had to make himself as scarce as possible from the capital that week. I thus alighted upon the brilliant idea of an escape to the seaside, maybe with a few chums from the Drones as company. Given the popular reaction to my sudden airing of such a sojourn among the birds at the club that Sunday afternoon, I was certainly not alone in my wish to escape the clutches of the impending congregation of some kind of -arcs. ‘Matriarchs,’ – yes, that was it. 

Bingo Little was swift on the uptake, as was Gussie Fink-Nottle and at least a dozen others, so we sallied forth and booked most of the third floor of the Palace Hotel at Spindleythorpe-on-Sea for a welcome week of golfing and sandcastle building, without an aunt in sight.

I returned to the flat and told Jeeves that we were leaving for the week to soak up Blighty's finest, à la mer. Despite such a sudden announcement, the marvellous fellow had our luggage packed in two shakes of the junior ovine appendage and we managed to catch the two-thirty from Victoria; the sea air becoming ever closer as the train puffed its merry way South.

"Well Jeeves, that was a lucky escape," I said as we coursed our way through the fields.

"Yes sir, most fortuitous."

"One aunt is bad enough, but a whole collection of the terrors in one place..." I suppressed a shudder.

"Quite so, sir. Most distressing." Jeeves paused and pursed his lips slightly, as he does when he is about to phrase a delicate question. " If you don't mind me asking, sir, much as an escape from London of any sort at this time was most agreeable, why did you select Spindleythorpe-on-Sea as our destination? Are you aware of any particular event that will occur there within the next week?"

"No, not at all," I replied. "It was Bingo's idea actually. He seemed frightfully keen to choose this place, so I was happy to go along with what the old bean wanted."

"I see, sir." Jeeves fixed me with one of those dashed clever looks.

"You see what, Jeeves?"

"Forgive me for suggesting this, sir, but when you informed me of our destination this lunchtime, I could not help but think that the week will not pass entirely without event. Last evening I was speaking with Mr. Morgan, who is the butler of the Glossop household, and he commented that Miss Honoria and various of her associates in their Ladies’ Club - I believe it is called the Junior Lipstick - were also planning a sojourn at the very same seaside resort, with a particular theatrical purpose in mind."

"I say, Jeeves! You mean that all of the female gang is going to be there too?”

“It would seem so, sir.”

“And what is this ‘theatrical purpose’, exactly?"

"I had understood it, sir, that-"

Unfortunately I never learnt exactly what Jeeves had understood, because at that moment a loud and enthusiastic cry of, "What-ho, Bertie!" rang through the cabin of the train. I turned around to be greeted by the sight of Bingo trying to keep his balance as the carriage rolled from one side to the other, and he quickly scurried over and sat down with Jeeves and me.

“What-ho, Bingo,” I said, “Jolly good idea this getaway, eh?”

“Topping, Bertie, simply topping,” he replied, “Especially as we get to be involved with the production of 'The Mikado' that Josephine's organising for charity.”

“Yes, quite,” I said absently, while staring out of the window. Then Bingo's last statement percolated through the old grey matter. “Hang on a second! Who's Josephine and what's all this ‘avocado’ business?”

“Oh Bertie! She's wonderful, simply amazing... truly and honestly a paragon of feminine beauty and charm... She's a... a...”

“Divine goddess, sir?” Jeeves helpfully completed.

“Yes, Jeeves! You have it on the button. She's a divine goddess! I thought I had met wonderful ladies before, but compared to Josephine they are all pale imitations of the real thing. This is the girl I'm going to marry, Bertie!”

“Oh, I say, Bingo. Congratulations,” I offered, “When is the happy day to be, then?”

Bingo shifted in his seat a little and peered at his fingernails. “Well, I haven't exactly asked her quite yet. We don't know each other very well. She's a friend of Honoria's who is visiting from Edinburgh – Miss Josephine Houghton-Wright. I first laid eyes on her last weekend in London, and I knew in that very second, just like magic, that she was going to be the love of my life!” Bingo's momentary deflation had clearly passed, as he was once again full of all of the joys of spring by the end of that paragraph.

“Ah,” I said, in manner that aimed to be sage, and I traded a knowing look with Jeeves across the carriage. I do like it when other people are being dashed silly, and I get to be one of the clever ones - comparatively speaking – along with Jeeves. I get this lovely feeling of kinship and fuzzy tingles inside. 

“Well, best of luck with that, old chap,” I rounded off, hoping that the conversation might have a chance of moving on from Bingo's latest crush at that point. Then the alarm bells began ringing once more, in the distance. “Now what's all this about a melon? Or was it a courgette?”

“If you are referring to ‘The Mikado’, sir?” Jeeves answered smoothly, “It is a comic operetta of some fame by Messrs Gilbert and Sullivan, which opened at the Savoy Theatre in 1855 and has enjoyed numerous performances of both a professional and amateur nature ever since.”

“Yes, that's right!” enthused Bingo. “Josephine is so clever – she's directing the whole thing at the Crenellation Theatre at Spindleythorpe next weekend – and I’ve offered to help her with the organisation of the thing. She was utterly delighted when I said I could bring along a friend called Bertie who would sing the male lead. I really do think she might grow to love me, you know. Wouldn't that be marvellous!”

The implications of Bingo's speech filtered through the Wooster brain, and I was distinctly less than pleased. Quite a weighty measure short of being pleased, I can tell you. “Hang on a bally moment!” I exclaimed, “I'm intending to have a nice quiet week at the seaside here, and that certainly doesn't involve any kind of monkey-business in a dashed theatre. The only performances I attend are ones where I get to stay nice and safe the right side of the curtain in my seat in the stalls.”

Bingo affixed a lost-puppy expression to his dial and began to say something.

“I simply won't do it,” I insisted, before he had the chance. For a split-second, I thought that by some miracle he had let the idea drop, because his expression transformed to one of delight. Only then did I see that he was no longer concentrating on me, but on the far door of the railway carriage, from where a sharp-featured young lady with the predatory, starved look of a peeved coyote appeared in view.

“Ah, Josephine!” said Bingo, jumping to his feet and then immediately falling back into his seat as the train encountered a hefty bump on the rail. He recovered himself, and then gestured wildly for the girl to join us.

“Good afternoon, Richard,” said Josephine. She then turned her attention to me. “And you must be Bertram,” she said, extending a well-groomed claw – I mean ‘hand’ - in my direction, “I'm very pleased to meet you. Richard has assured me that you will take to the role of Nanki-Poo admirably for our little production.”

“Yes, definitely he will,” chorused Bingo, all gooey-eyed.

“I say,” I protested, “Hang on a dashed second. Much as I'm flattered to be asked and all that, I'm afraid this week is looking rather busy, so sorry – no can do.” I tried to employ one of those firm, final tones about the thing. That should sort it out, I thought.

“Oh, that's tosh, Bertie,” said Bingo, the blighter. “I know for a fact that you have absolutely nothing to do this week. In fact, you only planned the trip to get away from your Aunt Agatha and the others while they're in London.” How could he, I ask you? The traitor.

“Um, well, yes. There was an element of escape to it, I admit, but since then the old schedule has filled up remarkably quickly...” I was casting around for a nice solid excuse to land on, but my hesitancy must have shown through.

Then Josephine piped up again, with one of those cunning feline expressions that females use to strike fear into the heart of any right-thinking chap. “But Bertie, you have no idea how much it would be _appreciated_ if you could find a way to squeeze our little project into your timetable. There will only be about seven hours of rehearsals each day, after all. When I next speak to your dear aunt, Mrs. Gregson, I would be delighted to tell her how you have been such an asset to a worthwhile cause.”

“You... You know my aunt, then, do you? Ha-ha,” I squeaked.

“Oh yes,” continued Josephine smoothly, “Mrs. Gregson and I are great friends. There is very little that we don't share with one another. For example, I do feel naturally compelled by our friendship to tell her that her dearest and favourite nephew has plotted to leave his home for a week to avoid seeing her. I imagine she may well be somewhat distressed at that news, and would see fit to make her distress felt.” Josephine paused delicately to allow the full implications of that statement to sink in. “However, if I was sufficiently distracted by, say, a heartfelt and enthusiastic performance in the style of a Japanese lyric tenor, such a sad story might slip my mind, and be replaced by the kind of praise that would warm an aunt to even the most errant variety of nephew.” She smiled at me innocently, waiting for a reply.

“You wouldn't,” I said, more in disbelief than hope. 

“I think she would, Bertie,” piped Bingo, “It is a terribly _strong_ friendship, after all.”

As you can probably guess, I was left pretty much speechless at that point, which led to smiles and congratulations all round with numerous promises of how it would be such fun working together, and how they would see me at rehearsals tomorrow. Josephine gave Jeeves a timetable that was positively teeming with little coloured boxes, and which ended ominously the following Saturday afternoon. Then Bingo escorted his lady-friend, who might well have been one of Spode’s lieutenants, out of the carriage and I was left once more with Jeeves, feeling considerably less cheerful than I had been half-an-hour ago. My valet however, had a distinctly amused expression on his dial – if that twitch of the left eyebrow was anything to go by.

“This is a disaster, Jeeves!” I exclaimed. “Utterly hideous. There I was, minding my own business, and all of a sudden my seaside holiday is up in smoke and I have to make a fool of myself in public at the weekend.”

“I understand your distress at the situation, sir, but if you will permit me to express an opinion, I do not believe the project will be a disaster.”

“Why on earth not, Jeeves? What do I possibly have to gain here?”

Jeeves looked thoughtful for the smallest moment, as if he might be choosing his words carefully. “I was merely alluding to the fact that I believe you to be musically talented, sir,” he said, and then busied himself with folding my umbrella more neatly.

I was quite shocked. “You mean to say that you think I’ll actually be good on stage, Jeeves? Me? As the romantic lead in some operetta? Stretching the point rather, isn’t it?”

Pretty much anyone else wouldn’t have noticed something in Jeeves at that point, but I have been watching that man’s subtle reactions for so long that very few clues to his mood can escape me. At that moment a tiny frown formed between his eyebrows and he swallowed quite hard.

“As I said, sir. I think you would perform the role admirably.”

*****

We arrived at Spindleythorpe in due course, and checked in to the hotel to find a perfectly pleasant suite of rooms awaiting us – bedroom, sitting room, bathroom, and the usual lair for Jeeves. The Palace was a bit stuck in the last century with doileys and florals and whatnot on every available surface, but that’s just how these provincial places tend to be, isn’t it?

By this point, with no small amount of encouragement from Jeeves, I had decided to make the best of the whole Gilbert and someone-or-other fandango, and was resigned to my fate as an amateur thespian. It was only for the one performance, after all, and I was assured that Spindleythorpe’s residents were people I neither knew nor were likely to meet again. 

That didn’t mean that I had forgiven Bingo for his part in the matter however, and it was as Jeeves and I were taking the air before dinner that evening, that I had the most spiffing of spiffing ideas for a means of revenge.

“Look, Jeeves! Over there,” I said, pointing toward a small structure at the edge of the esplanade.

Jeeves cast around quizzically with his eyes where I was pointing, as if he were expecting to see the Lusitania sail into the harbour, or some such spectacle. Eventually he said, “if you are referring to the fortune-teller’s pavilion, sir, I’m afraid I don’t quite see what makes it quite so noteworthy.”

“That's fair enough, Jeeves,” I conceded. “What's extraordinary is not the building itself, but the part it will play in the brilliant scheme I have just thought up to get back at Bingo.”

Jeeves looked distinctly sceptical. “And what might this scheme involve, exactly, sir?”

“Ah. I thought you might ask that, Jeeves,” I said in triumph, “The Wooster brain has been in overdrive just now and I have thought of a fabulous way for us to make Bingo thoroughly ruffled.”

“‘Us’, sir?”

“Yes, Jeeves, ‘us’. I'll need your help with this one. What I want you to do is to go and talk to the fortune-telling lady who works there – ‘Madam Osiris’, by the look of the sign - and either persuade or bribe her to tell Bingo a really rotten fortune regarding the future of him and the ghastly Josephine when we all go along to have our palms read, or crystals gazed into, or whatever these gypsy types do. He'll be royally miffed about it and we can all laugh at his expense! Isn't that marvellous?”

Jeeves paused for a moment, almost as if he was devising a scheme of his own, and then turned to me with a grave expression while drawing a laboured breath. “I regret, sir, that I am unable to help you with this particular idea.”

“Why ever not, Jeeves? It's a perfectly simple thing to do. I'd do it myself, but I can't very well be briefing the good woman while I'm steering Bingo in the direction of the tent, now, can I?”

“No, sir, and I certainly wouldn't advise that course of action either.”

I felt floored for a moment. I didn't know why Jeeves was being such a party-pooper. “What's got into you, Jeeves? You're usually full-steam ahead with the high-jinks and all that, and now you're acting as if no cunning plan has ever flowed forth from that gigantic brain of yours.”

Jeeves raised an eyebrow slightly, and answered very smoothly. “Let me assure you, sir, that my demeanour regarding such distractions in general remains unchanged, but forgive me if I seem somewhat hesitant in this particular case. The course of action you advocate would involve interfering with a most ancient and serious rite that should be held in the highest reverence. I would not wish to anger one who has the rare gift of communion with the supernatural by attempting to pervert the course of her visions, and I would also be most concerned for your safety if you were to embark upon such a mission.”

Well, that was surprising. “Are you telling me, Jeeves, that you actually believe in all of this fortune-telling business. That I should take it seriously?”

“I would strongly recommend that you do, sir,” my valet responded.

We continued walking along the seafront for a few more minutes in companionable silence. Jeeves' words weighed heavily upon my mind. Perhaps there was something in this fortune-telling malarkey after all, then. Maybe some people really could divine the future with the aid of cards or crystals or tea-leaves. It began to make a whole lot of sense, actually. The world is a mysterious place, and there are many things that we can't hope to fully understand. Wasn't Jeeves saying something along those lines the other day from one of his books? 'The more I know, the more I don't know that I know that I don't know.' ...Or something like that. Dashed clever.

I continued musing in such manner while Jeeves set our course along the promenade and looked out to sea a little, and by the end of my reflections I felt jolly grateful that my wonderful valet had saved me from a terrible gypsy curse or enraged hauntings by the dearly departed, or suchlike. Of course, I heartily told him so.

“You are most welcome, sir,” Jeeves replied, with a small quirk to his mouth. We then returned to the hotel and prepared for dinner, me going down to meet the other birds in the hotel dining room, and Jeeves biffing off wherever he biffs of an evening.


	2. Drama and Divination

“Good morning, sir,” rang Jeeves' dulcet tones the next day.

I surfaced drowsily. “Hullo, Jeeves,” I managed, “What time is it? It feels suspiciously early, somehow.”

“It is half-past eight, sir.”

“Half-past eight?! Why on earth are you waking me three hours before holiday breakfast-time?” I must have sounded distinctly grumpy.

Jeeves produced that dratted colourful timetable and proceeded to pass it into my (somewhat limited) field of focussed vision. “My apologies, sir. However, I am sure that you would not want to be late for your first rehearsal, which commences downstairs in the hotel ballroom in thirty minutes.”

I tried to hide my head under the pillow, but Jeeves deftly managed to remove both that and the quilt from my grasp, leaving me shivering on the bed for a while before sulkily padding into the bathroom. He did had a welcoming tub all ready for me though, and was most obliging in helping to scrub my back, as the hotel didn’t provide a proper loofah.

Twenty-nine and a half minutes later, Jeeves deposited me downstairs clad in a summer suit with a straw boater (he had vetoed the American-style hat). The ballroom was large and dusty, hung heavily with faded velvet curtains, but contained a perfectly serviceable wooden floor and at least one decent piano. A throng was already assembled, most of whom I recognised, and some of whom I was sure were tone-deaf. Indeed, there were two chaps there who had once been asked which part of Africa they hailed from following an after-dinner attempt to sing the National Anthem.

“Bertie! So lovely to see you!” called a drippy voice from somewhere behind me. I soon saw that it belonged to Madeline Bassett.

“What-ho, Madeline,” I said, “So are you looking forward to this, err… cucumber business, then?”

“Oh, Bertie, it’s going to be wonderful!” she gushed, “The words are all so very meaningful, don’t you think? As Yum-Yum, I get to sing about the moon, and the sun and all sorts of lovely things. And you and I will make such a romantic couple!” She fixed me with a boggle-eyed gaze that might have been intended to hold significance.

“Oh, ra-ther…” I stammered, “Yes, cracking…” In fact, I was almost glad when Josephine-the-Terrible sailed over bearing two large-looking books.

“Hello, Bertie,” she said, “How marvellous to see you. And on time, too! Maybe Mrs. Gregson described you a little too harshly after all. Or maybe it’s all down to Jeeves.” I was about to take issue with that, but had no chance. “Here are your score and libretto - have a look through and we’re going to start the sing-through in ten minutes. This is Deirdre Whittleworth – she’s the musical director.” 

Josephine gestured to her left to a girl so small and tweedy I hadn’t even noticed she was there. Deirdre looked at me from behind a pair of very thick spectacles, which gave the impression that each of her eyes was a goldfish bowl inhabited by many tiny, twitchy creatures. 

“Hell- hell-o,” she said, very quietly, then looked at Josephine to check whether she had been allowed to say anything at all. When no reprimand came, she was sufficiently encouraged to say, “I hear, Bertie… that you- you’re…very good at…play- …at playing the piano.”

“Well, I do like to tinkle out the odd number, I suppose,” I replied. “Most kind of you to say so, I’m sure.” Josephine and Deirdre then departed, and I found a chair to settle down to the serious business of deciphering what this unnamed vegetable trouble was all about.

Anyone in that room in the next few minutes may well have heard not a small number of chuckles, croaks and guffaws coming from the corner that contained Bertram. The thing was, you see: this particular musical aubergine was really jolly good! Funny jokes, nifty tunes, clever twisty plot. I was pretty well won over by the time I had thumbed through that score, and would have been a whole-hearted advocate of the forthcoming performance in different circs. Unfortunately however, having the thing laid out in black and white like that also made the whole situation feel a lot more real. Digestive butterflies were definitely beginning to do the cha-cha.

Josephine called the meeting to order and we all toddled piano-wards. Deirdre was sitting at the keys, trembling, with the overture before her. I was just about to suggest that it might be sporting to skip the orchestral what-not and go straight into the gents' chorus when an enormous change overcame the girl. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and immediately metamorphosed from the bowels of goldfish-bowl tweed-land into a head-swishing, piano-bashing daemon. I was impressed, if not a little scared.

After a stunned five minutes of every tune Mr. Sulli-thingy ever wrote stitched end-to-end, most of the chaps present were herded forward by Josephine (only some of the holding their scores the right way up, I noticed). They then proceeded to bellow through the opening number, striking various harmonies that I'm sure Jeeves would have described as, ‘exceedingly modern’. Madame la Directrix did not look pleased. Not at all.

I was gently musing on how the Drones club rugby team could possibly be transformed into a musical chorus-line within a week, when someone started poking me in the ribs.

“It's you, Bertie,” whispered Madeline.

“Oh, is it? Right...” I energetically leafed through the book until seeing, ‘No. 3. Recit and Song, Nanki-Poo’. “Mmm, well. Off we go then, I suppose.” Deirdre played the opening chord pretty fearsomely, but at least I started on the right note. “ _'Gentlemen, I pray you tell me, where a gentle maiden dwelleth, named Yum-Yum...'_ ”

The song that came next was rather jaunty, actually. “ _'A wand'ring minstrel, I...'_ ” It was jolly good sport, what with all the trumpets blazing and sailors shantying. Yes, especially the sailors. I made a mental note to tell Jeeves that he, as usual, had been right about this kumquat-thingy, and decided to regale him with that very piece when I got back to my room.

A few more numbers pottered by, and then we reached ‘No. 5. Entrance of the Lord High Executioner.’ The gents' chorus gave another dirge-like performance, and then-

Silence. Josephine scanned the faces present to see which chap was guilty of the heinous crime of not counting their bars. Finally, she demanded of no-one in particular, “Where on earth is my Ko-Ko? Mr. Fink-Nottle?!”

Madeline looked pretty distressed at that point, too. “Augustus? Where are you? I swear he was here at breakfast.” 

To the Wooster brain, this was doubly surprising – Gussie having absconded at the moment he was needed was one thing, but the idea of casting _him_ in the first place - a lisping booby every bit as wet as his own newts – as the sharp-tongued comic lead? Well, that was quite another thing entirely.

“I regret to say that Mr. Fink-Nottle is unwell, madam,” came a familiar voice from the doorway. I turned to see Jeeves there, looking resplendently neat, as always.

“Oh, dash it!” said Josephine, “Doesn't he realise how important this is? The performance is in five days’ time. It's jolly inconsiderate of him to be ill all over the place.”

“As you say, madam,” replied Jeeves. Then he turned to leave.

“Wait a minute - Jeeves, isn't it?” she called after him.

Jeeves returned, somewhat slowly. “Yes, madam?”

“As Gussie's not here you can come and sing his lines. Chop-chop - there's a spare score on top of the piano.”

Jeeves looked utterly incredulous at that point; _both_ eyebrows moved at least a quarter of an inch. Valet though he is, Jeeves is _not_ accustomed to being chop-chopped at. Indeed, Josephine was clearly either braver or stupider than Boadicea herself, to chop-chop at Jeeves.

Incredulity aside, Jeeves did indeed pick up a score, and almost magically opened it at the relevant page. He nodded slightly at Deirdre and immediately picked up the piece in exactly the right place at exactly the right pitch. I cannot recall whether I had ever before heard Jeeves sing, but let me tell you now – the man is a musical marvel! His voice sounded like fruit and honey and warm summer days. It was melodious, rich and clear, and I found myself being enveloped by his singing as one might be by a particularly luxurious duvet. My only regret was that the piece was so short; as soon as I had been lulled into a happy daydream, it was all over.

I was probably gaping at Jeeves in awe when he stopped, as he afforded me a tiny quirk of his (really rather handsome) lips from across the room. And then, without warning, he catapulted himself and the by-now dishevelled pianist into a lighting-speed patter-song all about a ‘little list’ of miscreants. All of Jeeves' trademark plummy vowels were there, punctuated by constants of such superb clarity the air around him was cut up into little shining pieces of glass. I tried to follow along in my score, but Jeeves whipped through several verses that totally escaped me on the page. In particular, I remember,

“ _'The theatrical director of a domineering sort,_  
And her comrade pianist. - I've got them on the list.  
And certain meek young men, whom rehearsals near-abort,  
Their newts should not be kissed! I've got him on the list...”

All jolly funny, I must say! - And what a coincidence that Mr. Sully-wully wrote lyrics that had such a close connection with the situation at hand.

When he had finished, the assembled company erupted into applause - with cheers and cat-calls - led from the front by yours truly, I'm proud to say. Most would have thought Jeeves to have remained completely impassive at this reception, but I could tell he was gratified – I have come to know my valet very well these years, and that purse of the lips was definitely a sign of pride from the handsome fellow. I confess to feeling a snip of reflected glory at having such a prize in my employ, in fact; we all thought he was an utter star! Well, nearly all, that is. Josephine looked distinctly icy and shot Deirdre the metaphorical daggers when she was caught clapping.

“That will be all, Jeeves,” the directrix remarked dryly.

“Very good, madam,” said Jeeves, and promptly melted from the room to a chorus of disappointed groans from the rest of us.

The remainder of the sing-through passed mostly without note, all of Ko-Ko's other material being curtly passed over, and Tuppy making a reasonable fist of Pooh-Bah – he _does_ have the pomposity down to a 'T', that's for sure. Honoria was either splendidly terrifying or terrifyingly splendid as Katisha; the old maid who tries to inveigle Nanki-Poo into marriage. I had to remind myself several times that it was only a story when we were doing that bit, I can tell you. The mere thought of being eternally bound to Honoria was still enough to send fear along the Wooster spine. Future aunt-material if I've ever seen it, that one. 

When all was done, I once again silently thanked Jeeves for saving me from a fate worse than Glossop, and left the rehearsal in pretty good spirits, all told.

*****

“I say, Jeeves, You were marvellous!” I said as I tumbled back into my room at lunchtime. “Jeeves? I say, Jeeves, are you here?”

My valet promptly shimmered into view, “Yes, sir?”

“I was just saying, Jeeves, that you were bally marvellous! The old vocal chords and that, – wow-ee!”

“Why thank you sir. I am most gratified to know that you enjoyed the rendition.”

“Gosh yes! Your voice made me feel all intense and goosebumpy. Is that the effect you normally have on chaps, Jeeves?”

He stilled for a moment, those dark eyes seeming to widen, just a little, in surprise. “Not to my knowledge, sir, but it is an interesting report to hear from you.”

There was something about that response, something that I couldn't quite place. It made me wonder if I was supposed to be picking up on something important, but for the life of me, I couldn't quite tell what it was. I just trusted that if there was something I should know, Jeeves would see fit to keep me up to speed in due course – he really was a marvel like that.

“I'm just popping out now, Jeeves,” I said, changing the subject in my confusion. “Bingo suggested a stroll, as the weather is so fine, before we have lunch.”

“Very good, sir,” my valet replied. I might have imagined it, but he still seemed a little distracted as he ushered me out of the door.

Mother Nature was indeed putting on a glorious show for us that day, and as Bingo, Madeline, Gussie (who had miraculously recovered, it seemed) and I prommed along the prom, all was right with the world. I felt totally at peace, cauliflowers notwithstanding, until of course, something happened to throw the Wooster constitution out of kilter.

“Ah, there it is, just as he said!” exclaimed Bingo, in a rare break from extolling the virtues of the dreaded Josephine.

“What’s this? Just as who said?” I asked, but no-one answered; they were all preoccupied with Madeline’s impression of some kind of flying horse in the direction of…

…Oh no. In the direction of Madam Osiris’ fortune-telling pavilion. “Let’s go in!” she called back to us, and I had no chance to protest as Gussie and Bingo dragged me along in Madeleine’s wake and we arrived, panting, at the entrance of the fronded seafront cabin.

“Fortunes for four, please,” demanded Gussie of the attendant, and slapped down half-a crown upon the counter.

“Ooh, right ‘e are, sir,” the old tar replied, “Madam Oo-sy-rees ‘ll be wi’ ya in a mo-ment. Jus’ go through that there cur’ain.”

We disappeared into the gloom of the pavilion, and my eyes were assaulted by incense thicker than Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps on a bad day. There were also lots of funny chiming sounds and more red velvet than might have been used for haberdashing an entire opera house.

My valet’s wise words came back to haunt me, then, and I began to feel a bit apprehensive about the whole affair. I wasn’t really sure if I was in the market for the profound truth of the Wooster future to be unlocked - just like that, in front of my chums. What if it was something awful? - That I was due to be squashed by an elephant escaped from the zoo, or that I’d expire as a result of a dodgy piece of liver-sausage. Of course, that would give me cause to steer a wide berth around liver-sausage from then on, but these fortunes don’t lie, you know. Someone might creep up on me in my sleep and bludgeon me with a particularly large, solid liver-sausage, just to fulfil the prophecy.

Such woeful thoughts could not be given full flight however, because no sooner as we had been admitted into the pavilion, a figure appeared at the other side of a curiously bedecked table and beckoned the four of us forwards. 

Madam Osiris, as I assumed the person to be, was a very tall woman who could not be described as pretty. She had broad, masculine shoulders, wide, capable hands, and a most dignified air. Perhaps in lieu of ‘attractive’ it might have been fair to label her ‘handsome.’ My fears regarding the future of Bertram were multiplied when I saw that impressive person who was about deliver same; anything this particular gypsy queen was to say would likely be most authoritative indeed. I was doubly glad now that I had heeded Jeeves’ advice and not followed up the foolish scheme of attempting to bribe her – the mere thought at this point seemed utterly shuddersome.

As I took in her full splendour, I noticed that Madam Osiris was wearing sequinned robes that fitted her frame loosely from shoulder to floor and shimmered in the candlelight of the pavilion like a flock of fireflies - if fireflies come in flocks, that is. Her face was partially obscured by a sort of see-through fabric gauze, but the bridge of a fine patrician nose appeared above the cloth, along with very deep brown eyes. Those eyes were pretty mesmerising, to tell the truth. I might have imagined it, but they seemed to be fixed intently upon yours truly, and I was torn between glancing away to dissolve the tension and returning that captivating, fathomless gaze. Intense stuff, I can tell you.

We sat down on the plush pouffes on the visitor side of the table, and the fortune teller slid into her high-backed throne opposite us. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, almost as if she was trying to get a measure of her clients before she began, from our oar-thingies. Auras; yes that’s it.

“Welcome, my children,” Madam Osiris said. I couldn’t help but notice that her voice was extremely deep for a woman’s, and had a rhythm that seemed strangely familiar. “What is it that you wish to ask the eternal spirits?”

“We would like to know about love and romance,” said Madeleine, deeply in awe, “Please tell us about the one true kindred spirit for whom we are each destined on this earth.” She paused thoughtfully. “And I’d also like to know, if it’s not too much trouble, Madam Osiris, why God decided to make the stars into a daisy-chain.”

Madam Osiris seemed to be taking all this in, but I rather wondered whether the daisy-chain business was a bit much, even for one who communed with non-corporeal beings during breakfast. “Very well, my child,” she said, finally, “Which one of you brave young explorers will be first to venture forth with me, to the realm of the unknown?”

We all shifted in our chairs a little, and I tried to avoid her eyes, not wanting to be the guinea-pig on this occasion. I didn’t quite feel safe with the pronouncement of this woman pending over the Wooster life and limb – not to mention heart and soul - and I couldn’t help but wish that Jeeves was there. I somehow felt sure that he would have been a good match for her, on the awe-inducing front.

After what seemed an eternity of polite coughing at one another, Bingo spoke up. “Oh, go on then. If you’re all too lily-livered to go first, I will. I’m not afraid to hear of the years of married bliss that will stretch out before me, with Josephine at my side. That is what’s going to happen, isn’t it, Madam Osiris?”

“Not so hasty, my son,” the fortune teller replied calmly, “First we must perform the ancient rituals that allow me to consult the spirits on your behalf. Please place your hands on the table…Richard…Yes, I sense your name is Richard…”

Bingo looked properly impressed by that. We all did, for that matter, and any residual doubts I may have had about this gypsy being the genuine crystal-gazing, spirit-communing article disappeared out of the beaded flap of the pavilion.

“Yes, that’s right. I’m called Richard,” said Bingo. He spread his hands, palm-side upwards upon the table and looked at the fortune-teller expectantly. Madam Osiris closed her eyes and began to mutter something under her breath.

At first, the words didn’t make any sense – some sort of foreign, or perhaps even ancient language, which Jeeves, no doubt, would know all about, but I understood not a jot. Her voice rose and fell in pitch and volume and she swayed backwards and forwards and the chanting became more exciting – all dashed theatrical, I must say. At that point, when the woman might have been in a trance, she switched back to the King’s E. “Oh, great spirits, commune with me now to share the journey of these four young voyagers forward into the mists of time…”

A few deep breaths, a little more humming, and then she grasped Bingo’s hand in hers and gazed down upon it intently.

“Richard, my son,” said Madam Osiris, “I sense a period a great change for you. Many, many changes of heart will come your way in the near future; some might say, with almost clock-work regularity…”

“Ooh! I knew it!” said Bingo, “My life is just about to change altogether when I marry Josephine! Isn’t that wonderful?”

Madam Osiris looked slightly disgruntled. “Please be mindful, my son, that the spirits have not specified such an occurrence, exactly.”

“Yes, I know, I know,” replied Bingo, “I’m sure they can’t be that specific. But I know what it means. I’m confident. Thank you so, so much.” He positively beamed at her, and nodded toward the rest of us, meaning that someone else was to take a turn with the unseen powers.

Madeline piped up next, seemingly emboldened by Bingo’s happy outburst. “Augustus and I would like to have our fortunes read together, please,” she stated, “It seems appropriate, as we’re engaged.” 

“Oh yes, quite so,” said Gussie, with a wary look toward his betrothed. Daisy-chains or no, he had the look of a man who didn’t fancy placing his chances of wedded bliss in the hands of a glitter-clad woman who spoke in tongues. A very distinct expression, that.

“Very well,” replied Madam Osiris, “In that case, please place one hand each upon this crystal ball, overlapping at the fingers.”

Gussie and Madeline did as they were told with the shiny sphere, and held their breath as the fortune-teller gazed therein.

“I am receiving a peculiar kind of message, here,” Madam Osiris said, with a slight furrow to the brow, “Does either of you have an interest in… Let me see…not frogs, but close… Not toads either…”

“Newts!” exclaimed Gussie, “Yes, newts! I love them dearly!” At this point Madeline looked somewhat disgruntled, and tightened her grip of Gussie’s hand upon the orb. “That is to say, I’m somewhat interested in newts,” he revised, “Just a passing curiosity really. They’re nothing at all compared with how much I love Madeline, for example…” Gussie seemed to think he had redeemed himself sufficiently by that point, and chanced a sideways glance at his fiancée, just to check. 

“That is a very wise frame of mind to adopt, young man,” concurred Madam Osiris. “The spirits tell me that young ladies to do not well to competition of any sort, especially when it is green and slimy.”

“Yes, righty-ho,” asked Gussie, somewhat hastily, “But, err, can we go back to what Madeline asked now? About true, kindred spirits and all that?”

“Yes, please?” chimed Madeline, “Is Gussie going to be my special Dream Rabbit for ever and ever?”

Madam Osiris took her time to answer that one, and peered deeply into the crystal ball. “The supernatural forces do not seem conversant with the exact concept of a ‘Dream Rabbit,’ my child, and I’m afraid they do not often take kindly to direct questions.” She hummed and peered some more at that point. “However, I can inform you – Madeline - that you are very likely to enter into happy matrimony with a person… with whom you are currently sharing an artistic endeavour. Someone who is in the same play, perhaps?”

“Oh, yes, wonderful! I knew it had to be true!” said the pleased young filly, “Did you hear that, Gussie? It’s all going to work out for us, and everything hinges on ‘The Mikado!’ Didn’t I say how important it would be for you to be Ko-Ko in the production? – Now we know exactly why!”

I noticed at this point that Gussie’s chops achieved a distinctly greenish hue. “All hinges on ‘The Mikado,’ eh?” he said somewhat less than convincingly. “Marvellous…”

“Will that be all, my children?” Madam Osiris asked Madeline and Gussie. Madeline nodded happily with a particularly soppy expression on her features and they withdrew their hands from the crystal ball. The fortune-teller then sat upright and assumed a very hushed and serious tone. “I have one more fortune to tell now, my young wayfarers, and I sense that this will be one of the most important divinations I have performed for some time.”

Oh, jolly good! _This sounds dashed exciting,_ I thought. I was just beginning to get into the swing of this fortune-telling business, and waited impatiently for the next show. A few moments passed without event however, and I then realised that all of the eyes in the room were focussed on B. Wooster.

Needless to say, that took the shine off things a bit, and the aforementioned nervousness returned in spades.

“Do not fear, my dear… Bertram,” said Madam Osiris gently, “You came seeking the innermost secrets of your heart, and that is what you shall learn.” It was clever the way she seemed to know what I was thinking, just then. And my name, for that matter!

“Splendid. Well, off we go then. Just as long as there isn’t going to be any liver-sausage involved.” I chuckled sheepishly.

Madam Osiris looked slightly confused, “I can assure you, my dear boy, that the spirits are not conveying messages about cured meat products of any sort.”

“Phew! That’s a relief then.” I felt somewhat better then, knowing that I was not to be told a tale of ex-porcine doom.

“Now, Bertram my dear, please take these cards and shuffle them thoroughly.” Madam Osiris held out a deck, and I suddenly felt rather more confident about the whole affair. If there’s one thing that B. Wooster knows his way around, it’s a deck of cards.

I took the cards from her, but on the way couldn’t help noticing something about the woman’s marvellous hands. They were firm, warm, and not unlike… _No, that’s just plain silly,_ I reprimanded myself. _There is no reason whatsoever that the appendage of a grand fortune-teller should remind you of the fine paws of your valet._ I really can be fanciful at times, you know.

As I leafed through the cards, I couldn’t help noticing that they were dashed unusual. Not your average hearts, diamonds, clubs and spades, that’s for sure. In fact, most of them had a picture of some sort, in an oldy-worldy kind of style. In fact, they reminded me of a big rug from some Bay or other that Jeeves was reading about the other day. Dublin Bay? Bay of Biscay? Ah, ‘Bayeux’ – that was it.

Well, I showcased some of the nifty shuffling tricks that my pinkies are so good at, after all that practice at the Drones – a good generous riffle, a couple of strips and even a hindu. When I was thoroughly satisfied that not a single one of the pictures had the same neighbours as before, I handed the deck back to Madam Osiris, vaguely wondering what sort of game we were going to be playing.

On the contrary however, she didn’t make any attempt to deal, and instead just held the deck in both hands, humming quietly and muttering something about the spirits making their choice. “Now, Bertram, we are ready to make your reading. I shall place five cards on the table, and these will reveal much about your future life and loves.” Her hands hovered theatrically over the deck for a moment longer, before making a sudden swooping movement and turning over the top card with much flouncing of sleeves.

I peered at it upon the table. There was a horse draped in black banners, with a cloaked man carrying a hammer and sickle. At the top was the title-

“‘Death’?! I say! That’s a rummy thing for a chap to be told on a Monday afternoon. I said earlier that I didn’t want to know anything about the bally liver-sausage!”

“Panic not, my child,” said Madam Osiris, calmly. “The card of the reaper is rarely to be interpreted literally. It is far more likely to symbolise a sudden change of circumstances – the promise that a new kind of life is just about to begin for you.” I felt somewhat mollified at that, and nodded that she should carry on. “The next card,” she continued, “Will represent your current state, in which you begin this journey. And it is…” another flipped card joined Death on the table. I mean that figuratively of course. There might have been the odd deceased fly or woodlouse lying about, admittedly, but none that I was aware of.

“It’s ‘The Fool’!” exclaimed Bingo, with rather too much glee. Gussie then started chortling, and poked me in the ribs in a rather ungentlemanly fashion. I felt somewhat miffed.

“Ah yes, the sweet innocent,” continued Madam Osiris, “So full of potential, but in need of the right guidance in life. Young man, you have a very promising start to the tarot here; this card complements Death very well.”

“Oh, jolly good,” I said, not altogether convinced.

“Your next card will represent the other person who is significant to your romantic journey, young Bertram. Watch carefully now, this is very important. Yield for me ye cards, the secret to this voyager’s heart… It is… ‘The King of Wands’”

Madam Osiris sat back in her chair, with a somewhat smug expression of the half of her face that I could see, and I have no reason to doubt that the other half was a perfect match. “You are most fortunate, my son.”

“Am I?” I asked.

“Indeed you are. The King of Wands is an admirable person with whom to be romantically involved. The spirits tell me this soul is loyal, conscientious, and generous, not to mention entertaining and extremely passionate in the right circumstances.” She furrowed her brow slightly at that point. “I also detect that this soul harbours a very deep and genuine love for you, but cannot declare that love, lest it lead to ruin. The fondest wish of this soul is for you to return this heartfelt sentiment, and make that sentiment known.” She paused once more, then locked her dark, mesmerising eyes with mine. “Have you any idea who in your life could be represented by this card?”

“Not the foggiest,” I confessed. It all seemed quite a turn up for the books really. Here I was, muddling along, avoiding marriage with the best of them, and all of a sudden I had been told in no certain terms that an absolute paragon of human nature was my intended. I suppose I was pleased in a detached sort of way, but absolutely none of my female acquaintances came even halfway up to the mark. It was all dashed puzzling.

“That's a pity,” said Madam Osiris, although she did not seem too perturbed; perhaps she expected the answer I had given. “I shall now lay the final two cards of your tarot, my child. These will represent the journey of this nascent relationship, and then the final outcome, whether for good or for ill.” Some more flicking of sleeves followed at that point. “Ah, very interesting indeed – 'The Six of Cups'. This card tells that any love that might form will have a strong foundation in the past and the present; in your life as it is today. Something solid and true in your current existence could form the foundation for something... more. However, any journey that is undertaken must be started by you, and you alone. You must follow your heart, young man, and listen carefully to the way your feelings lie.” A lengthy pause, then no doubt for me to digest those dashed clever instructions. “And finally...”

Madam Osiris placed the final card with such flourish one could have been forgiven for thinking that she had conjured it out of mid-air. The picture showed two people entwined in a rather jammy pose. It was-

“'The Lovers'” cooed Madeline. “Oh, Bertie, you're so lucky!”

“Yes, that card certainly speaks for itself, young Bertram,” finished Madam Osiris. “I wish you and you intended every good thing. However, you must remember that the tarot is only an indication of what can happen if you strive for it; you must now search and act to make sure it comes true.”

“Right. Marvellous.” I flannelled for a moment, but was then overtaken by a rather powerful thought. Here I was, being predicted to about grand endeavours and consequences – probably the clearest insight I would ever get on the future prospects of B. Wooster – and I didn't have the faintest clue who she was on about! Bingo and Madeline and Gussie all seemed perfectly confident that they had identified the subject that was their very own Dream Rabbit, or Nightmare Capybara, or Delusional Hamster, or whatever combination of out-of-body experience with _rodentia_ they fancied, but here was I, perfectly rudderless. I decided that I simply had to have more information about my fortune, and resolved not to leave the pavilion until I had pressed Madam Osiris further on the matter. 

“Golly, well thanks very much,” I said, “But I'm afraid I'm going to need a bit more help. Any clue as to the identity of this person, do you suppose?”

“I cannot tell you, my dear child. You must make the connection yourself.”

“Well, how about just a hint then? Say, – what does this person look like? Just the basics?” I grinned entreatingly. “You see, I’m a simple fellow and I’m not likely to figure it out otherwise now, am I?”

Madam Osiris stopped and seemed to consider that last remark. Finally, she conceded. “I trust that is an accurate assessment, young Bertram, so perhaps the spirits will be willing to give a little more information. The person I sense is someone tall and dark-haired, whom you know well and see often. I predict that you will find a great deal of happiness with this person, if you embark upon the journey that I have described.”

“Right, Gotcha. Tall and dark-haired, someone I know well and see often. That's something to be going on, at least. Thanks very much.” I smiled once more, feeling as if I had at least a fighting chance with those few facts to play with. The divi-whatsit was clearly at an end, so we all stood to leave, and thanked Madam Osiris again. Before exiting the tent however, I shook hands with the harbinger of my fate, and couldn't help being reminded once more of a pair of strong, capable hands I knew from elsewhere...

We emerged from the pavilion, blinking in the sunshine like new-born babes, all no doubt with quite a lot to reflect upon. Lunch at that point seemed a capital idea, so we found a pleasant café by the seafront and downed no small amount of prawn, crab and various other types of pinkish invertebrate. My curious fortune from Madam Osiris was certainly playing on the old bean, but I couldn't for the life of me make head or tail of it, no matter how many times Madeline asked me whether I was sure I didn't know who the other person might be. In the end, I decided that only time, or perhaps more accurately, Jeeves, could tell.

However, my opportunity for querying the magnificent brain of my valet was severely postponed, as it transpired that the whole afternoon was to be taken up by another dratted rehearsal. I mean to say, a few hours of sing-song in the morning is well enough, but spending the whole day at it? That's beginning to look suspiciously like work, that is. 

There was nothing that could be done though, what with being chaperoned by both Madeline in the role of ebullient leading-lady, and Bingo as the right-hand man of Josephine herself - a duty that he seemed to be taking very seriously indeed. Gussie and I were frog-marched back to the hotel ballroom by two p.m. exactly, me feeling somewhat miffed, and he looking distinctly ill all over again, actually. 

When we arrived, Josephine announced that the afternoon would be devoted to bricking. No, that's not it. -Ah, to 'stoning'. Nope, not that one either, although perhaps a rather intuitive parallel there. Aha! The whole afternoon was devoted to 'blocking.' For those not conversant with the theatrical term, this basically meant that we spent about four hours practising standing up in different places at different times. There was a little bit of walking between the aforementioned standing places, but standing itself was definitely the thrust of the exercise – not a musical note in sight.

As it happened, Gussie rather cheered up when he found out about the wall-building stuff, and took an almost personal pleasure in offering to lock the piano such that it couldn't be played by accident. Standing up was obviously his forte - as much as it is possible to make a specialist skill of planting two feet on the ground and not falling over, after all.

Finally, at a time when the call of the wild dinner-gong was definitely making itself felt, we were free to go, and I dashed upstairs to talk with Jeeves about the rather pressing matter of Bertram's future, which had been sitting on my mind all afternoon.

I burst into the room and called, “What-ho, Jeeves!”

“Good evening, sir,” he promptly replied, “Do I trust that this afternoon's rehearsal progressed satisfactorily?”

“Oh, yes, yes, it was more or less fine,” I offered, happy to have a chin-wag with Jeeves before bombarding him with questions. Actually, I had a bit of a bee in my bonnet on the subject, truth be told, which could do with the opportunity to fly free. “That Josephine is a bit of a terror though, you know, Jeeves. She kept telling me off for having my back to the audience! How am I supposed to know whether I have my back to the audience when there isn’t any bally audience in the room in the first place? Am I supposed to conjure up these theatre-going creatures by force of imagination, and then attempt not to offend the self-same creations as they toddle around in their imaginary way? - I ask you! Well, for one thing, any audience that I would care to imagine would have the good grace to position themselves in a satisfactory place in the first instance, so it wouldn't ever be a problem.” I was quite pleased with that point. I felt it had a good ballast of logic to it.

Jeeves however, gave me a long-suffering look – the one with the left eyebrow slightly raised and his head a little to one side. I know that look well. “Exemplary though I'm sure your own imagined audience members would be, sir, I fear the popular convention in these matters in not nearly so enlightened. When Miss Houghton-Wright requested that you to face the audience, I believe she was merely encouraging you to project your words in a direction that in the theatre will correspond to the body of the auditorium relative to your position of the stage.”

That actually made quite a lot of sense when he explained it. Why couldn’t Josephine have said that, four hours beforehand? “Ah, well done then, Jeeves,” I conceded. “Is there anything that you don't know? No – don't answer that; you'll only say, 'I could not say, sir,' as you usually do.” Jeeves refrained from commenting there, so I went on to my next thought. “Oh, and by the way, Jeeves, how did you learn to sing so well? I forgot to ask you this morning.”

“I was a chorister at school sir, and have since read numerous books on the subject of proper vocal technique.” Impassive though Jeeves is, he did seem a little proud.

“Gosh, books again, is it? What with your books and your fish I imagine there's nothing that you aren't good at.”

“I think an exploration of _every_ kind of pursuit would be necessary to testify to that, either way, sir,” replied Jeeves. He said this in a way that sent a little tingle along my back, almost as if there was a hidden meaning that secretly called out to my spinal chord. Not something I could quite make sense of at the time, though, so I let it pass.

“Yes, quite so,” I answered amiably. “Actually, Jeeves, there is something I'd like to tell you about.”

“Indeed, sir?”

“And some application of that enormous brain of yours to the matter wouldn't go amiss, either. It happened at lunchtime. Do you remember that fortune-teller's pavilion we saw yesterday?”

“I do, sir.”

“Well, I'm dashed glad that you didn't let me do anything foolish with it – the woman who resides there is every bit as great and terrible as you led me to believe she would be.” I then went on to recount the details of the visit, taking special care to tell Jeeves about all of the funny picture cards, and the extra clues I was given about the identity of my supposed beloved. He listened intently and soaked up all the details with such accuracy, had he been a lesser man one would have assumed he had been there in person. 

When my tale was done, I appealed for help. “So, Jeeves, that's how it stands. Do you have any idea who this tall, dark-haired Dream Rabbit who I apparently know already might be? And what shall I do from here about it all?”

“Alas, I do not, sir,” he replied, “Although I do suspect that the other party might baulk at that particular lapine cognomen. I can only imagine that the spirits will work in mysterious ways, and that when the time is right, all will become clear.” 

\- And that was it. No helpful speculations, no brave insights. Merely a clear, final tone stating that I should trust in the supernatural. Fair enough, I suppose, but it all did seem a bit of a turn-up for the books. Jeeves had never before displayed an inclination to believe in unexplained phenommy-whatsits; he was always charging forth upon a dilemma armed with logic as his sword and wit as his shield. 

“Shall we make ready for dinner, now sir?” my valet asked.

“Yes, I suppose we should,” I agreed, accepting that the earlier conversation was at an end. 

I couldn't help thinking though, over my consommé that evening, how Jeeves would look jolly dashing on a white charger in full knightly get-up with sword and shield et cetera. I reasoned that his impressive height and fine dark hair would complete the picture admirably.


	3. Predictions and Predilections

Tuesday's am. was not quite as much of a shock to the Wooster constitution as Monday's. I had made sure Jeeves had warned me about the rehearsals the night before, you see, so those dratted little coloured boxes couldn't creep up on me in the night and catch me unawares. It was not at all pleasant having to rise so early, but at least I was prepared for it, and bowled down to the ballroom that morning with score in hand and even a few minutes to spare.

What I was totally unprepared for, however, was the curiously ebullient reception I received upon arriving there. Bingo strode forwards with arm outstretched. “What-ho, Bertie! My greatest congratulations to you. What good news.”

“Yes, who would have thought Wooster would be settling down already, eh? Well done, old man!” That was Tuppy, patting me enthusiastically on the back.

Much as it was lovely to be greeted so warmly by one's chums, I couldn't help thinking that I might have missed something. “Hello. Yes, what-ho Bingo, Tuppy, Gussie,” I said, “Spiffing to see you all, as ever... But what's all this about settling down?”

“Oh don't play all coy with us, Bertie,” said Tuppy forcefully, “Bingo's told us all about it, and now we know who your intended is exactly, what's left to do but crack open the champers? The girls have practically chosen their dresses already.”

“Yes,” said Gussie, “It was Madeline who worked it out – she's terribly clever like that. Oh, here she is again. Madeline, dear, do come over here and tell Bertie how you knew who he is going to marry.”

“Who I'm going to marry?” A mere repetition was all I could manage at that point, rather like a scratchy wax cylinder.

“Good morning, Bertie!” called Madeline as she approached, “Isn't it a beautiful day? Well I suppose any day is beautiful now you are a groom-to-be. I'm so glad I puzzled out the tarot-reading for you both – you and Honoria are going to be so happy!”

“Honoria?” My face drained of colour. There had to be a mistake; this was pure madness… Me, marry Honoria? She’d eat me alive! I had managed to wriggle out of this one before, and I wondered whether I could hear the sound of cruel fate knocking to collect his due. 

Keen to avoid the scaly hand of the spectral tax-collector one more time, I tried a reasoning approach with the assembled company - surely they would be able to see the flaw in this ridiculous scheme. Suppressing the panic I felt, I gathered my most reasonable tone. “Ah, Honoria, eh? That's an interesting idea, Madeline, but why exactly did you think that the fortune teller's words pointed to me and her? I can't quite see it, myself...”

“Ah, the sign of true love is often being unable to appreciate the obvious, Bertie,” Madeline replied with an assumed tone of mysticism. “You are just so very fortunate that I was there to see it for you, or your one true chance of pre-ordained happiness might have slipped through your fingers.”

“Ah, yes, quite. Much obliged, I'm sure. But why exactly do you thing the fortune points in this direction?” I had to get it out of her – there was no other way I might have ammunition to fire at these devilish circs. otherwise.

“Just think about it, Bertie. You have known Honoria for a long time, yes?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.” _Far longer than I care to remember_ would have been a more honest answer, but I was trying to keep things cordial.

“She's a very tall girl, just as Madam Osiris predicted...”

“Yes, I can't argue with that one,” I said, with scary images of being loomed over for years to come.

“And she has very dark hair! The predictions are complete.” Madeline gazed upward at that point for cosmic effect, but it mainly served to highlight the yellowing plaster on the ceiling of the ballroom. “I really am delighted for you both, you know, Bertie. The stars will be in a special kind of daisy-chain tonight, just to mark your engagement.”

I thought hard about the reasons given as Madeline finished talking. “Aha!” I said then, with probably more gusto than was altogether polite, but I didn't mind that – I had found the flaw. “I regret to say, Madeline, my dear, that you are mistaken. Honoria does not have very dark hair. It is more the colour of a...” 

Well, 'a mouse' was the natural and obvious creature to complete that sentence. You know - one of the little brown field chappies that lends its name to the more general descriptor, 'mousey'. However, B. Wooster was feeling particularly quick on his toes that morning, and I remembered at the last moment before uttering such an adjective that it does not go down well among members of the so-called fairer sex. Not at all well, if a tear-stained and tennis-racquet-impacted blazer I have hanging in my London closet can be described as fair witness to a previous occasion of my innocently employing the term. Therefore, I very cunningly searched my vocabulary for an alternative woodland creature that would fit the bill. A fox? No, much too red. A badger? Too stripy. 

Aha! Yes, that was it. “Honoria is far more like a shrew,” I completed triumphantly.

Madeleine’s boggley eyes boggled even further at that point, and I realised that perhaps I had managed to upset the sisterly camaraderie after all. These Junior Lipsticks could be ferocious in packs, you know. “How could you speak about your fiancée like that, Bertie?” she asked in a hushed, yet rather cross tone, “Now, you better be nice about our dear Honoria now, for here she is.”

And yes, low and behold, my apparent intended strode into the room at that very moment, approximately eleven feet tall, and crested by an extraordinary plume of very, very black hair. 

Honoria, as Jeeves has said in the past, is a ‘healthy young lady.’ She has the ability to wallop a chap on the back with the force of several miffed rhinoceroses, then pull him along by the arm at the speed of a locomotive that has become detached from its carriages while descending a rather severe incline. Anything that is left of said chap after such treatment would probably be best left out for the blackbirds or any passing vultures.

It was therefore perhaps understandable that I was at bit perturbed to find myself the target of a speeding Miss Glossop at that moment, who seemed intent on giving yours truly the hug to end all hugs. Or respirations, for that matter.

“What-ho, Bertie!” she hollered toward me.

“Ah, yes... Hullo, Honoria,” I managed, “Quite a surprise, you having dark hair today... isn't it? I could have sworn it was somewhat, err, _paler_ than that yesterday...”

“How sweet of you to notice, my dear Bertram. Perhaps you're not quite as much of a lost cause as I thought; I will be able to make something of you, after all!”

“Ah, is that so...” Quite why every female I meet seems intent to 'make something of me,' is a fact that I never have, never shall understand. Do I come across as the human equivalent of those little pieces of toy train track, or perhaps like a pile of ingredients for a Victoria sponge?

“But yes, as I was saying,” continued Honoria, “I am indeed willing to make great efforts and sacrifices for artistic verisimilitude. I have had my hair coloured especially for Saturday night's performance, to create the proper Japanese effect. Doesn't it look realistic?”

“Oh, ra-ther,” I agreed, silently thinking that hair may be one thing, but the fact that Honoria could quite easily represent _two_ authentic Japanese ladies was quite another.

“And so, on to business, because I'm sure that you won't want to let me slip through your fingers again, now, will you Bertie? I have telegrammed the vicar in our home parish to enquire about a Saturday next month, and we can have the reception at home, of course. I haven't told Mummy and Daddy quite yet – after last time I don't think that you are their very favourite, all things considered – but I'm sure they'll come round if I present the whole affair as a _fait accompli_. Your aunt Agatha will be pleased, of course. Spiffing, what?” 

Honoria then decided that I needed embracing to settle the matter, and I steeled myself for the crunch, feeling pretty powerless to escape; the Code of the Woosters is definitely a curse as well as a blessing, you know. Now, I have heard Stiffy Byng and certain other girls whose conversation has a habit of turning somewhat to the feline, say that Honoria has an ‘hour-glass figure’ – presumably in preference to the waif-like profile that seems to be fashionable these days. It seemed to Bertram then, when embroiled in a rib-crushing embrace with the terror, that ‘month-glass,’ or ‘year-glass’ might have been a more appropriate term.

When it was over I peeled myself off of Honoria's skirt-suit and attempted to regain a third bodily dimension. I was just about to launch some kind of gentle protest – about not wanting to rush things, and the like – when Josephine strode over and tried to call the rehearsal to order, immediately engaging Honoria’s assistance.

I had noticed during the course of rehearsals thus far, that Honoria and Josephine were really rather chummy with each other – two sergeant majors in the same pod, one might say. They were both equally bossy and domineering, but not so much so with each other. Perhaps they sensed that - like Chinese Samurai fish - a battle would last to the death were they to embark upon one, so it was safer to join forces instead. 

Admittedly - if the viewer was on the other side of a nice thick plate of glass - they made a pretty striking pair. Honoria was tall and broad and Josephine was shaped more like a needle than a Venus. They strode around with the same bossy gait putting all of us lesser mortals to rights, and sometimes disappeared behind a big desk in the corner to draw up long lists, elaborate plans, and more of those terrifying charts with the little coloured boxes.

This all came much to the chagrin of Bingo of course, who was feeling distinctly sidelined in his official role of ‘assistant producer’. He looked on in consternation when Josephine had called Honoria over to discuss the finer points of costume design, or set, or characterizi-thingy, while leaving him in a corner with terse instructions to ‘sweep the stage before we start Act II.’ Perhaps he was hoping to debunk Honoria onto me for the rest of the week to have a clearer access where Josephine was concerned? If that was so, Bingo was due to slide a long way down my list of favoured chums, and I’d be half-inclined to feed him to Tuppy for breakfast.

I was woken from such thoughts by a harsh clapping of hands, directed mainly towards the gents’ chorus, who were trying to see who could balance a hard-boiled egg on the end of his nose for longest. I had my money on Cyril personally, given the broadness of his proboscis, but alas we were never to find out.

“When you have _quite_ finished, gentlemen…” said Josephine in her finest school mistress tone, “As you know, the performance is approaching quickly, and therefore we really need to up the pace of rehearsals following yesterday’s gentle introduction.” Eight hours straight with barely a break for lunch didn’t seem very gentle to me, but I declined to argue that point. “Today, the group will be split between myself and the musical director in alternating combinations to maximise our productivity. The principals will rehearse music first, with Deirdre in the conservatory. We might as well start with you, Nanki-Poo. Off you go then, chop-chop.”

Simply typical for me to be picked on first, I say, but for once I didn’t really mind – it gave me an excuse to escape Honoria’s beady eye, for the short term at least. I picked up my score and toddled off to the conservatory as I was told, to find Deirdre there in all her terrified glory. She nodded at me shyly and gestured to the top of my first song as a place to begin. I agreed that the beginning was indeed, a jolly sensible place to pick things up, and she launched herself at the rickety café-piano with full force.

Deirdre didn’t say much as we went about things for the next hour or so, but then again she didn’t really need to – every instruction was perfectly clear from the way she bashed the ivories and rode the pedals as if they were stirrups and she was the winning jockey in the Grand National. By the end of things it had actually done the trick, I think; we’d ironed out all the sticky bits and I had a fair idea how to find the starting note of each piece from the final note of the previous one. I was sure that all such notions would be worth their weight in gold come the public exposure that Saturday so kindly offered, and cringed resignedly to myself at the thought of it all.

When I went back into the ballroom, I was met with an extraordinary sight – the gents’ chorus were engaged in something that might have been supposed to resemble _dancing_ but looked more like a rugby scrum, or possibly human knitting. 

“Not there, you great Oof!”

“Watch it! That was my toe!”

“She said ‘left!’ How many different versions of ‘left’ can there possibly be, eh?!”

Unfortunately, I wasn’t afforded much chance to watch the comedy, because Josephine swooped down on me like an eagle finding a vole in the undergrowth. “Ah, there you are, Bertram! What on earth have you been doing?”

I was just about to answer, “Singing until I was blue in the face, thank you very much, and at your own orders, Miss Bossy-Boots,” but sadly the brave words died in my throat before I could get them out.

“Now go over to where Madeline is waiting for you to practice lines with her. Dear Honoria is just going to run-through her vocal numbers now, but you will be rehearsing with her this afternoon.” Josephine gave me a meaningful look, presumably just to go with all the others I had already suffered that day on the subject of my apparent betrothal, but being Josephine, this one seemed more severe than usual. I scurried in the direction of the pointy pointed finger before she had the chance to tell me to chop-chop again.

As the supposed lead-couple, Madeline and I had a fair amount of stage-time together, and a glance through the libbi-whatsit revealed that there were vast amounts of cutsiness and innumerable daft sweet nothings that we were expected to get through. I just thanked my lucky stars that it was only _acting_ \- a lifetime of being married to Madeline would be too much to contemplate. However, on the subject of candidates for marriage to Madeline, Gussie was giving me dashed rummy looks during all of this practising. It’s not as if I particularly _wanted_ to keep embracing her and having her fluffy head on my shoulder, but Josephine insisted that we should keep going until it looked realistic. 

In the mean time, Gussie and Tuppy were supposed to be clowning around with the ladies’ chorus – the young girls mercilessly tormenting poor old Pooh-Bah in a way that looked almost _too_ realistic. The pack of fillies - led by my cousin Angela in the role of Pitti-Sing - kept tweaking his ears, ruffling his hair and poking him in the middle, followed swiftly each time by a fit of giggles and a speedy escape. This had been going on for over half-an-hour and Tuppy was looking distinctly nonplussed by the whole affair. 

His moment of reprieve came when Gussie was summoned to go and sing in the conservatory, drawing that particular scene to an end. Gussie nodded at Josephine’s command, but then seemed to come over all shifty, like a cat-burglar trying to make off with a particularly fine Siamese. That _is_ what they do, isn’t it? - Cat-burglars, I mean. 

Such impression was reinforced when Josephine caught him tip-toeing out into the lobby when the conservatory was clearly in the opposite direction. “And just where do you think you’re going, Augustus?” she cried, and all eyes turned to glare at Gussie. Quite right, too, say I. If the rest of us were doomed to be cooped up in here for the week, practising some dashed kiwi-thingummy, why should he get time off? I’m sure that we’d all rather have liked to be dipping our toes in the big blue s. just then, but the flag of dedication was being flown all round, and deserters were not to be dealt with lightly.

“I’m err… just going to get a, um.. glass of water,” he explained. “I’ll go straight there afterwards, no need to check or anything… ha ha…” And with that Gussie sloped off, in a direction that looked suspiciously like the front door of the hotel.

*****

On a usual sort of day, lunchtime would have perked me up no end, but what with Gussie going missing – just as I had suspected, the blighter! - most of the gents nursing bruised toes and yours truly lamenting the impending loss of his bachelor status, it was a pretty sombre affair. Not that the midday repast was allowed to last for very long, of course. I was just deciding whether I fancied strawberry ice-cream with chocolate sauce or chocolate ice cream with strawberry sauce, when Josephine swanned into the dining room and began ringing a bell at us, like ringing the dinner gong in reverse.

I heaved a sigh and complied with her percussive instructions, trotting back into the dusty old ballroom despite the call of sea breeze and sunshine. Just to make matters worse, Honoria charged over to me then, full of the joys of assorted vegetables.

“I’m really glad we can get a jolly god run at our scenes now, Bertie,” she said, “Dashed sporting of Josephine to give us the whole afternoon session to rehearse together, what?”

“Oh, ra-ther…” Was it really going to be the whole afternoon? Aagh. Jeeves had warned me about the number of imposing little coloured boxes I was due to suffer, but perhaps I should have asked about their type as well. A chap should be able to steel himself for four hours of straight Honoria, you know, especially under the particular rummy circs. vis her and self.

I realised then that Honoria was still talking to me. “…and I think it will be important for us to bring out the subtextual true love that is really felt between Nanki-Poo and Katisha…”

“But he can’t stand her, can he? He’s being forced into this whole marriage business against his will?” I was pretty sure I had that right from the libbi-whatsit. The ironic parallels at play between the actors and characters just then did not escape me either.

“Ah yes, that _is_ the impression one might gather from an initial, shallow reading of the text, Bertram, but upon deeper inspection, it is clear that at heart Nanki-Poo really wants the more mature, forceful woman, who will be able to take him in hand, make something of him…”

I was just about to say, ‘No he bally well doesn’t,’ but Josephine then leapt to Honoria’s side and the two of them peered at me as a small boy might peer at an interesting beetle he has found in the garden. Right before he rips its legs off, that is. I knew then that what ever artistic-whatnot the two of them had in mind was going to be irresistible for poor old Bertram - in the literal sense.

“Let’s make a start then,” said Josephine, “I think we’ll begin with Honoria’s marvellous concept of a spectral adoring Nanki-Poo during Katisha’s lament.”...

*****

Following several unwelcome hours of being clamped to Honoria's ample bosom in the name of art, it was the sorry remains of a Wooster who made his way upstairs before dinner. Fortunately, Jeeves was waiting for me, and had a reviving G & T on hand as I walked in the door.

“Just what I needed, Jeeves. Thank you,” I said, handing him back the glass after I had drained it in one gulp, “For the solace of liquor is the only thing your employer has left to him in this life. By the time the month is out, all will be lost.”

“Sir?” Jeeves enquired, with a measured look of concern.

“I'm doomed, Jeeves!” I wailed, “For I've become engaged to Honoria Glossop again, and it's all the fault of that bally fortune-teller.”

Jeeves was silent for a moment as he took in my distressing news. “If I may offer an opinion, sir, Miss Glossop does not quite fit the description that Madam Osiris gave regarding your intended as you have relayed it to me. Granted, the lady has been of your acquaintance for some time, and she is of considerable height, but her hair... is certainly something of the murine.”

“Precisely my train of thought, Jeeves,” I said despairingly, (although also taking a little pride that I had thought of the same idea as Jeeves when faced with the same bare facts - maybe I wasn't so silly after all). “I thought the small-woodland-creature-clause was going to be my saving grace, but it turns out the dratted female has blackened her hair for Oriental effect – thus fulfilling the prophecy and making everyone else dash for the confetti. What a rum do!”

“Ah, most unfortunate, sir,” said Jeeves – with a fair amount of venom, actually, by Jeeves' polite standards. I was touched by the extent to which he was moved to defend me in these circs. “I am sure this is not what Madam Osiris had in mind.”

“How do we know what she had in mind, Jeeves?” I snapped, feeling exasperated. “Perhaps these eternal spirits are a malevolent bunch, and take sport in torturing poor chaps like me over their ethereal tea and crumpets. Besides, however much of a marvel you are, my dear Jeeves, I was not aware that you had a direct line to the supernatural.”

Jeeves looked considering for a moment, almost as if he might, in fact, regularly send cables to the Big Chap Upstairs. In the end, he merely said, “As you say, sir,” and poured me another stiff one by way of condolence.

Dinner that evening seemed to be a festal affair for most – the girls done up in their favourite frocks and the chaps all in a particularly ebullient mood, no doubt feeling encouraged by the fact that yours truly had apparently led the way so bravely ahead in the wooing and winning stakes. Gussie had re-emerged, and seemed to have told Madeline something to keep her happy, so they were cooing away to each other at one corner of the table.

I couldn't escape sitting next to Honoria at dinner, so was in a position to thoroughly enjoy being criticised for the way I slurped my soup, carved my meat and of course, drank too much wine. Well, what was a chap to do? In such dire circs. the old Bacchanal anaesthetty-thingy was the only possible way to cope. I thought that if I got properly sozzled and distracted I might at least be able to forget about it for a few hours. It was therefore jolly welcome when Bingo leant toward me in a conspiratorial manner with a plan for further entertainment that evening.

“I say, Bertie,” he whispered, “How do you fancy having a super time tonight when the fillies have gone to bed?”

“Sounds like just what I need right now, Bingo, old thing,” I replied glumly.

“Marvellous!” he hissed, “ I may or may not have mentioned that my uncle keeps a little cottage around here – it's just at the other end of the prom. He's not here at the moment, and has said I can use it to entertain. The old chap has quite a collection of bottles, and another sort of collection too, which I think you'll find most _interesting_ \- not to mention informative, with regard to upcoming events.” He gestured toward Honoria then, who was in deep conversation with Josephine. “So, are you in?”

I didn't have the foggiest what Bingo was talking about, but it sounded fun all the same, and bottles were a definite plus. “Yes, spiffing. I shall tell Jeeves not to wait up for me.”

“Good stuff, Bertie!” said Bingo, then tapped the side of his nose with a finger that was unfortunately liberally coated with toffee sauce. “And remember, not a word to the girls.”

“Right-ho,” I agreed, then handed him a napkin.

*****

As someone-or-other's law would have it, it took the Junior Lipsticks a dashed long time – two brandies and a snifter of port, to be precise – to decide that it was time for bed. They were being rather grievously buoyed by talk of crinolines and sugared almonds and suchlike, and I was very keen to keep a low profile. 

Finally however, we chaps bade them goodnight and then cautiously made our way out of the hotel into the sleepy seaside evening. We walked along the prom as the dark ocean swished this way and that, chatting gaily about the cricket, or the shows, or fast cars and suchlike. As it was just we Drones again, I began to cheer up a bit, - there’s nothing like the low-lying presence of females to tap the spirits. All that was missing was a few wry comments from Jeeves, and the Wooster existence would have been complete.

As Bingo had promised, his uncle's dwelling wasn't far off at all, and we soon came across a charming little place decked out in the rustic style, which would comfortably accommodate Bingo Senior – the blessed old bachelor – and no doubt, his valet, or housekeeper, or whoever it was who looked after him in these parts.

“Here we are, then,” said Bingo cheerfully, and ushered us all inside into the front parlour. The room had a fair collection of comfortable sofas and wing-backed chairs by a big stone fireplace and displays of unlikely-looking fishermens' knots in glass cases around the walls – all rather cosy. “Now, what would you chaps like to drink?” With a flourish, Bingo opened the door of a full-height cabinet, and revealed what must have been over a hundred different bottles, all stacked in neat rows and containing various potent-looking liquids.

“Cor, how splendid! As we're by the sea, how about a spot of rum?” said Tuppy.

“Quite right too,” agreed Bingo, “Now would you like standard dark or something called 'overproof special' - according to this label?”

“Ooh, I think we should go for the special,” chorused Gussie, and the assembled company murmured their agreement.

“Good show, special all round then,” declared Bingo, who then started to pass around a tray of glasses and the most unusual-looking bottle of liquor. When the aforementioned g.s and l. arrived with me, I gave it a jolly good slug – and then a bit more for luck. For goodness only knows, if anyone needed luck just then it was the chap who found himself engaged to Honoria Glossop.

“Down the hatch, then!” called someone, and we all obliged, wheezing a little at the burn, but not enough to prevent the bottle from whizzing around once more in pretty short order. There's nothing like a little refreshing tipple to make one feel better, you know.

The evening continued thus for some while, the conversation becoming more and more animated while probably covering less and less actual content. All decidedly merry, indeed; this was the kind of thing I had come to the seaside for, after all.

After a time, Bingo banged his glass on a side table to grab everyone's attention, unfortunately de-rigging his uncle's ship-in-a-bottle in the process. “Right chaps, now we're all warmed up, the fun can really start. And this,” he picked up a large packet of papers of some sort, “Is the very essence of paradise, in print form. My uncle gets them directly from a supplier in Paris - you'll never find anything this err, _good_ made in Blighty. So, who wants a look?”

There then followed an extraordinary clamouring of both the vocal and the physical kind.

“Ooh, me, me!”

“Over here, Bingo!”

“Go on, me first, I did let you win at draughts the other day, after all!”

Needless to say, I hadn't the slightest clue what the fuss was all about – surely a packet of leaflets, or postcards, or whatever they were couldn't be that exciting.

Bingo lifted the sheaf of papers above his head to keep them out of the way of grabbing mitts. He reprimanded those closest to him by saying, “Watch it! Most of you chaps saw these when I brought them to the Drones' last month, anyway,” and then decreed, “Everyone will get their turn, but actually I think Bertie should go first, to mark his engagement and all that. Here you go, old man. As well as being utterly spiffing, these things should come in dashed useful – consider them a road-map for what's to come.” There were many not-so-discreet chortles at that last remark, and I then found myself sitting with the curious package on my lap, and with at least a dozen Drones craning over my shoulder to see whatever lay within.

I shrugged at the overwhelming enthusiasm they were all displaying, but quickly obliged the hordes by removing one of the items from its brown paper wrapping. It turned out to be a scrapbook of some sort – the type that people use for keeping postcards together – and was someone had written 'French Letters for French Ladies' across the front.

“Go on, Bertie, open it up!” called Gussie, so I did as he asked. I was then faced with the most peculiar set of images. They were all fillies, but they were all, well _naked._ Not a stitch to be seen.

Now, I've seen the Greek sculptures in the museums just as much as any other chap (not that I tend to linger much over the Aphrodites truth be told, but the Davids and Apollos are all jolly fine). However those national treasures tend to be a.) made of cold, hard marble, and b.) tastefully arranged. You know – with strategically placed vine leaves or bits of cloth or what have you. These pictures of Bingo's could boast neither of the aforesaid attributes, looking distinctly warm and fleshy, and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. They also seemed distinctly unappealing, truth be told, although the other Drones certainly didn't seem to think so. 

“Gosh! Look at her,” said Tuppy, “I hope Angela's that well set-up on top,”

“You'd be lucky. But how about Bobby Wickham, eh?” answered Cyril.

“Good call, good call, old thing,” agreed someone else, “Come on, Bertie, let's see some more.”

In consternation I reached once more for the rum bottle and gave myself a generous top-up – the flow of liquid meeting the glass with less than perfect accuracy, I must confess. However, bowing to the force of peer pressure I also turned the pages a few more times, becoming increasingly alarmed at quite what the pictures were willing to display. There were girls spread-eagled in every conceivable position, and the cameraman clearly wasn't too worried about steaming up his lens. Combined with all this were the ever-louder cries of appreciation from my fellow Drones, forever urging me to show more of the frightful pictures.

“Well, I don't quite know about this, old thing...” I said at one point, but there was a fair amount of tutting and guffawing at that, and someone reached over and took over the duty of turning the pages. I felt properly hemmed-in just then, my alcohol-numbed coconut being further drenched with images of all these terrifying French beazels, salaciously goggling chaps on every which side of me, and then a sickening, horrifying notion as I begun to understand what Bingo meant when he was making references to my engagement to _Honoria._

As if he had read my thoughts, Bingo chimed in, “So Bertie, what do you think, eh? Both fun and educational for the old wedding night, what, what?”

Tuppy flicked over the page again just then, revealing what must have been the prize postcard in Bingo Senior's collection, as it was _in colour._ My queasiness then reached full horror, and I could only think that this must all be some kind of rummy joke or optical illusion. I said the first thing that came to mind on seeing such an image, “My goodness, how awful! Is that poor girl wounded?”

They must have thought me quite the comedian, but trust me, a distressed and tipsy B. Wooster found the situation just then anything but funny. “Don't be silly, Bertie,” said Gussie, “That's what it's supposed to look like.”

Supposed to look like? Well, someone or other up there had clearly gone very wrong on the design side of things, and I certainly wanted absolutely no part of it. People were supposed to keep there insides, well... on the _inside._ Admittedly, chaps had a certain hydraulic variability in these matters, as it were, but the whole package was basically smooth and intact and viewable without fear of loosing one's roast goose. 

Now this feminine... what-ever-it-was... was an entirely different matter altogether. Not wanting to upset those of a less than strong constitution, but I was reminded significantly of an eel-fishing trip the previous summer. And that was one of the milder analogies that sprang to mind, let me tell you.

“Goodness, yes! That's why we all want to get married, eh?” said Tuppy, making some particularly suggestive gestures with his tumbler and a banana from the nearby fruit bowl, “How marvellous – Can't you just imagine...”

I really didn’t want to. If there had been any cotton wool handy, I would have stuffed it in my ears. And my eyes too for good measure, most probably.

“Oh, yes!” chorused Bingo, pointing back to the photograph still poised dangerously on my lap, “She's just beautiful, isn't she?”

“Oh, yes! What a corker.”

“Ooh la la!”

“So Bertie,” persisted Bingo once more, “Isn't this the most beautiful thing you've ever seen? And soon you will get to see the very same – and much more – in real life!”

“Um, I err...” I started. I was all a-quiver. I now understood the implications of Bingo's words with sickening clarity, and there was nothing that seemed more perfectly horrid, truth be told. The rum lurched dangerously from side to side in my digestion and my head swum in a confused cloud of disbelief, cut with a small internal voice with a decidedly indignant tone that might perhaps help me to make sense of it all.

How could they all think that these female frights were _beautiful_? I knew instinctively that beauty wasn’t supposed to look like that. Beauty was tall and strong and dark haired. Beauty was clever and reliable and always one step ahead. Beauty spoke in melodious, complicated sentences and moved with an almost supernatural precision and grace. Surely, it was obvious, wasn’t it? That these images were nothing like the real thing? Or at least it was perfectly obviously to me; Bingo and Gussie and the rest seemed clearly of the contrary opinion, and I vaguely wondered just how much rum was necessary for a chap to loose his senses so.

Of course, I hadn’t ever analysed my thoughts on the matter before, and I had precious little opportunity to do so then. All I knew at that moment was that pink and squidgy things on postcards were still sitting imposingly on my lap, and I stood a very good chance of producing something equally unpleasant on Bingo Senior's hearthrug if I didn’t leave immediately. That very instant. 

“Um, thanks Bingo, old chap, but I've really got to go right now,” I jabbered, and then sprung from my chair, sending the benighted album flying goodness-knows-where and bolted for the door, the bracing sea air just managing to take the edge off what would have otherwise been an explosive exit.

I set my course along the darkened promenade, feet catching at invisible obstacles on the floor and generally feeling very dizzy and very glum indeed. I took my time, cherishing the space and relative quiet around me, and feeling thankful to be away from the assembled company. When I had caught my breath, I attempted to cast a critical eye over the whole affair – which in truth, was not easy to do in such an impressive state of inebriation as I was then, but I tried nevertheless. 

Why should those pictures have seemed so bally rummy to _me_ , when the others were having the time of their lives? At this rate, I was never going to find a woman I could stand to marry, I thought, and even if I did, I’d be so vexed and repulsed by the whole honeymoon business, things would end badly before they had even begun. It was all looking pretty bleak for the Wooster line, as indeed my aunts were fearing.

And then I remembered I was engaged to Honoria (the rum had that nasty effect of springing the same unpleasant surprise on a chap over and over again). I failed to suppress an enormous shudder at all that would entail, and the liquor vied strongly to be released into the community. 

A few cleansing deep breaths later, and I set off on my way once again, with another attempt at profound thoughts. It wasn't that Honoria was such a bad old bean herself, my addled brain slowly reasoned - if one likes the sergeant-major types, anyway. There was just something so ultimately, physically, viscerally wrong with the principal of the thing…

I stood in utter, blackened desolation for a good while, looking out to sea. And then, all of sudden, something clicked! For the first time in my life, it all made glorious, beautiful crystal clear sense, even though my liquor-soaked bean was spinning on its spindly support and I could barely remember the way back to the hotel. I realised you see, that I didn’t want to be married to any Bassett, or Glossop or divine goddess, not particularly because there might be something undesirable about them personally, but because I just wasn’t designed like that. 

B. Wooster was not programmed to like the fillies. Full stop. End of story. 

The ecstatic combination of liberation and libation I felt at that moment, while shakily toddling along the seafront is difficult to describe. All of my anti-matrimonial wriggles suddenly felt justified; part of some divine plan that would clearly have a purpose and a trajectory. In fact, the marvellous sense of triumphant wisdom I possessed just then, pales only in comparison to the earth-shattering realisation that occurred to me some fifty yards and twenty-five minutes later.

It appeared as people might describe a visitation from one of those prophet chappies. One moment I was intimately acquainted with a seafront litter-bin, wondering whether it would have been more efficient to simply have brought the bottle of rum to said bin, rather than using my insides as a kind of temporary receptacle. The next moment, I was gazing out across the dark and surging ocean and a full chorus of heavenly beings started singing the angelus – with trumpets, and lyres and any other kind of beatific instrument you care to mention. It was like discovering the most fundamental truth of all the world, and at the same time realising that deep down I knew it all along anyway.

I was in love with Jeeves. 

Deeply, madly, head-over-heels in love with Jeeves, in a way that was so integral and fundamental to being Bertram Wooster that I hadn’t even recognised it for what it was. Jeeves was my beloved, my betrothed. It was just as the fortune-teller had told me.

That statement was pure and simple and so irrevocably true, I just stood there and basked in the glory of it for a good few minutes. Luckily, most of brain cells were still dealing with the aftermath of Bingo Senior’s liquor cabinet, so there was no power left over for doubts, or worries or dismissals, as might have been the case if such a profound truth were to strike a fully sober chap.

No, I knew I was in love with Jeeves just as I was sure that my name was Bertie and that tweed was the one true material for jackets. Everything suddenly made so much more sense, and I was floating on top of the world.


	4. Sentimentality and Subtext

The following morning I awoke in bed in my own hotel room, wearing my own neatly pressed pyjamas. My head felt as if the elephants of the Moscow State Circus had been using it for balancing practice and my mouth had been reupholstered by a maker of yak's-wool carpet. I was vaguely aware that there was something dashed important that I should be thinking about, but at that particular moment, the subject was totally lost.

At that point, Jeeves floated into the room bearing a tea tray, and a few luminous, transcendent thoughts resurfaced in my brain. He paused at the end of the bed and regarded me. I regarded him back through gummy eyelids. 

There I was, lying down feeling utterly hideous, and there he was, looking pristine and clever, and utterly tall, dark and handsome, if you will forgive me the cliché. Everything was just as it should be - aside from the feeling u.h. of course - and I knew that my brain had not been playing tricks on me the previous night. 

I was indeed totally in love with Jeeves. 

I allowed myself a moment of reflection there, but obviously looked totally unresponsive because Jeeves coughed gently and said, "Good day, sir. Here is your tea and a small glassful that you might find refreshing." He gestured toward a little cup of his miracle restorative, and I darted upwards dizzily, reaching out for it like a parched man in the desert. I may have imagined that our hands lingered upon one another as I took the drink from Jeeves. My mind was not working sufficiently well at that point to know either way. 

Moments later, my tonsils had thoroughly been sandblasted by whatever he puts into those dashed potent antidotes of his, and although I felt physically rather better, the workings of the Wooster _finer feelings,_ as it were, came over decidedly rummy. You see, in that sudden transition, the dreamlike clarity of the previous evening faded around the edges and subsided, allowing the real world with all its shades, textures and traumas to elbow its way in. 

To make matters worse, I was then struck - like a cricket bat to the head - by the twin forces of terror and woe, and I dearly wanted to be hung-over again. The consternation must have showed on my dial, for Jeeves swiftly asked, "Is there anything the matter, sir?"

Anything the matter? _Well yes, dash it!_ I thought. I suddenly found myself in the position of knowing that my natural state, which had seemed so pure and beautiful the night before, was looked upon by society as decidedly shady. What's more, no sooner was the true place of my heart and adoration discovered, I realised I would be compelled to lock it away into the darkest chest at the bottom of the deepest ocean for the rest of my life. Jeeves could never know, lest he was appalled. However much of his polite disapproval I had come to suffer through my choice of fashions and schemes and friends, I couldn't stand for him to be appalled with _me._ I loved him far too much for that to be an option. 

Just as I was busy consigning myself to a fate of eternal misery, a far more immediate problem ticked through my brain. The logic went something like this: I had somehow managed to make my way home the previous night, and had somehow been undressed and put into bed. There was no way that I could have managed that alone, so I must have seen Jeeves. I had no memory whatsoever of what I might have said to him in that elated state. 

My heart was then cruelly twisted by the notion that far from worrying about concealing my love for the years to come, I might have already spoiled everything. Jeeves might be just about to remind me that he had his bags packed, and that he would write a strict note in the Junior Ganymede club book saying that none should ever work for a dreadful invert like B. Wooster.

The idea that Jeeves was about to give his notice and leave my side on the very day that I realised quite how dearly I needed him was too painful to contemplate. I simply had to put myself out that misery either way; I had to know. “Um, Jeeves,” I said, trying to be brave, “Last night, when I came home, did I, um, say anything to you?”

“Why yes, sir,” he replied, revealing nothing in his countenance. My heart almost stopped from the suspense of the thing.

The worst possible scenario then played out in my mind. He was about to give his notice, but Jeeves, the gentleman that he is, was trying to save me from the embarrassment being told the reason in black and white. If I wanted to know for sure, I would have to drag it out of him. Some invisible force powered me forward to my certain doom. “And, ah… you don’t happen to recall what kind of thing it was, do you?” I said.

“Yes, sir, I do,” Jeeves answered. He paused altogether then, but my distraught expression must have persuaded him to continue. “You came home very late, sir, in a state of some jollity if I may be permitted to say so. I assisted you with removing your evening dress and locating your nightwear and you climbed into bed. I asked if that would be all, and you said that on the contrary, you had something very important that you wanted to tell me. Indeed, you insisted that I go to fetch a bottle from the bar downstairs, because the thing you had to say was of such enormous importance that it had to be properly marked with a toast.”

The story was playing out like a ghoulish moving picture before my eyes. Any second now would come the rejection, the repulsed recoiling. I could barely look at Jeeves as he drew a breath to continue.

“I returned to the room within a single minute, I estimate, sir, bearing a bottle of Scotch and two glasses as you had requested. However when I came back you were soundly asleep, and have remained so for the following fourteen hours.”

I blinked dumbly for a moment, but then it sank in and the news was like a reprieve to a French aristo at the gilly-whatsit. I must have positively beamed. “You mean to say Jeeves, that I never actually got around to telling you the thing that I was going to tell you?”

“Exactly so, sir,” my most attractive valet replied.

“Well, what a bally relief! I’m sure you wouldn’t have wanted to hear it.”

A strange expression passed across Jeeves’ dial, like a swift rain cloud. Of course, it was gone within a second. “I could not say that to be the case, sir,” he replied.

“Well, no. I don’t suppose you could, having no idea what it was, and all that.” I tried to keep things light, the relief still pouring off me like an ice cream left in the sunshine as I changed the subject. “So, what’s on the offing for today?”

“You are due at a rehearsal in fifteen minutes, sir,” said Jeeves. “I have laid out your acting clothes, and if you bathe directly, you should arrive just in time.”

*****

Well, I went to the rehearsal, of course, and the many others that followed it that afternoon and evening. To be honest, I was pretty glad for the distraction. The cucumber-thingy seemed to be coming along pretty well as far as I could tell, and I was dashed impressed by all the dancing that the ladies chorus had been doing that morning while I had been securely in slumberland.

Josephine seemed very keen to get me what she called ‘off-book.’ Now, as far as I was concerned, I could never have been described as the sort of chap who was ‘on-book’ in my life – much to the dismay of most of my school-teachers, the odd professor at Oxford and Lady Florence Craye, to name a few. Now Jeeves, I thought, was far more the type who could be accused of being ‘on-book.’ He was so widely-read, whole libraries might close if he were to offer his services as a walking encyclopaedia. I really did admire him, I thought. How lovely it would be to be lulled to sleep by the sound of Jeeves’ voice reciting the complete works of Shakespeare, or ‘The Iliad’ in original Greek, or the periodic table from memory, for that matter. Just as long as it was him, with that beautiful brain…

You might have guessed by this point that yours truly had it pretty badly. The love thing, that is. Well, if you had so assumed, you would have been awarded an A+ for close reading of the text thus far. I was about as sunk as the Titanic and as equally awash. 

Every little memory I had of Jeeves attained a glorious affection, as if I could build a shrine to his brilliance inside my head. Every word was doted upon, and every expression was carefully catalogued for future adoration. I thought about the moments we had spent together, all those nonchalant touches while dressing, cosy evenings in the flat and companionable bath-times. I stitched together a personal moving picture of these memories, cherishing every moment that had passed between us, and reprimanding myself for having never realised quite how special and meaningful they had been at the time. - That was not at all bad work for six hours of rehearsal-based day-dreaming, actually. It's amazing what a chap can get done when he sets his mind to it.

Perversely however, just when the tenderest of emotions were blossoming within my breast, I couldn’t really allow myself to take any pleasure in them. After the extremely fortunate escape that morning, I was very careful with what I said around Jeeves. In fact, I couldn’t bring myself to say much at all. It would have be nice enough just to continue along as things had been – me as master, him as valet, sharing the time of day and the odd joke – and try to find some happiness in his nearness, like a mouse finding crumbs under the table of a banquet. Surely that would be better than holing myself up in the skirting board and having no cheese at all, I thought.

Well, yes, of course, it would have been logical to get back to our accustomed _modus operandi_ , but something in the love-sick Wooster constitution was finding the idea near-impossible. I was firmly stuck in the skirting board (I speak figuratively, here, of course). 

Every time I saw Jeeves, my palms would go all sweaty, and I could barely look him in the eye, lest he was able to read the adoringly fevered thoughts I was having about him at the time. I’m not usually an _enormously_ articulate kind of chap, but I’ll freely admit that my conversational ability with Jeeves that day would have made Mr. Darwin scratch his head and go back to his family tree. I was just too preoccupied with watching my valet’s noble profile, dashing figure and near-balletic grace while all the time feeling so utterly terrified for doing so, there were no neurons left-over for forming sentences. Not one.

All was not well in the state of the Wooster, and as Wednesday wore into Thursday, I was beginning to see what that Mr. Shakespeare chappie was on about when he wrote lamenting sonnets on the topic of aching hearts. My heart was aching like billy-oh, and I was pretty sure that a poem of any description wasn’t going to make it much better. Only the valet of my dreams could do that, in a way that definitely was not going to happen, I told myself sternly.

And thus the cycle of moping, thinking, hoping and re-moping continued, rather like the mechanism of Big Ben, or Notre-Aunt in Paris, or whatever it's called. You see, much as my original, somewhat inebriated reaction to being in love was elation of the finest sort, swiftly followed the next morning by toe-curling panic and relief, the following period of reflection caused yours truly to sink into the most melancholy of states.

To make matters worse, I learned on the Thursday afternoon that I was supposed to actually know all of Nanki-Poo’s words, songs and actions off by heart. In two days’ time! I thought it was bally rummy to spring a thing like that on a chap at such short notice (she could have said it in the rehearsal the day before, at the very least), and I jolly well told Josephine so. Not that my strict words did any good, of course - she simply rolled her eyes and asked me whether my brain had actually been present for the past two days' rehearsals, or whether my body and vocal chords were being puppeted by an outside force. I had quite a snappy answer to that, actually, but decided not to use it; love-lorn Woosters just don't have the inclination to argue when they are caught mid-pine. Instead, I just added learning the pomegranate to my list of worries, right alongside being engaged to Honoria (which was occupying an alarmingly small amount of air-time, now I come to think of it) and being helplessly enamoured with my valet.

The songs weren’t so much of a problem because I have the kind of bean that picks up a merry tune quite easily, and the movements weren’t too bad either. The rummy thing was all of those lines – there were acres of them, and very few actually made much sense in the first place. In normal circs. I might have stood a fighting chance of memorising all of Mr. Gilbert’s silly Victorian ramblings if I really tried at it, although it would have never been easy. However, at the time in question, when my heart and mind were positively saturated by unrequited love of the most pressing and insistent kind, I stood no more chance of learning the stuff than the apocryphal feline in a diabolic dwelling. This was looking truly awful.

After having tried and failed to perform a scene several times without the aid of my libbi-whatsit, Josephine seemed to reach her snapping point on the matter. This was much to the approval of Honoria, who was also being less than complimentary about the Wooster recall, I can tell you. At the bidding of these harpies, therefore, I was dispatched back to my room with strict instructions to learn all of Act 1, lest I wouldn’t be allowed any supper.

I pushed the door open gingerly, hoping to find the place empty, as Jeeves would have expected me to be busy downstairs for at least another two hours. Of course, I was to have no such luck.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, melting out of the living room to greet me at the door. As always, Jeeves looked heavenly in his perfectly starched shirt-front with not a hair out of place. Oh, how I longed to crumple that shirt, to ruffle that hair!

Instead, I tried to minimise contact (how sad). “Yes. Um, I should probably get on with things; I was sent back a bit early by her Royal Bossiness.” I said, in an attempt at humour.

“I see, sir. If I may ask, how are the rehearsals progressing these past few days?”

This was a topic I felt just about safe to talk about without embarrassing myself, at least. “Oh, moderately well, I suppose,” I said, although I'm sure I looked thoroughly glum, “I can manage most of the singing all right.”

“I have no doubt about that, sir,” said Jeeves, almost warmly, “and if I may enquire further, sir, how are the other principal performers managing their roles?”

I had to stop and think about that one, actually. You see, I had been so absorbed in keeping my head above water with my own share of the prancing around at the same time as nursing a severe case of heart-ache, I hadn't taken much notice of what the others were doing. However, I racked my brains valiantly to answer the question. Much as I had been hesitant about talking to Jeeves, I was utterly incapable of refusing him anything he asked upon finding myself actually engaged in a conversation with my beloved. “Err, they seem to be okay, on the whole,” I managed, “Madeline is thoroughly enjoying being a dippy young Japanese girl, and has quite a pleasant little voice, actually. Of course, she lisps so much you can't really hear the words, but that's just detail, really, isn't it?”

“Quite so, sir,” said Jeeves, although he didn't sound quite convinced.

“Tuppy is thoroughly enjoying himself, being more pompous than ever. 'Primordial, protoplasmic ancestor,' indeed! Bingo has been around the whole time of course, trailing around after Josephine like a lost puppy. What he sees in that woman, I have no idea, Jeeves. Being engaged to a sergeant-major like that would be truly deadly.”

Jeeves gave me a significant look at that point – the one with his lips slightly pursed, which I find particularly adorable – so I took the opportunity to moon over him for a few soppy moments. However, I was also prompted by that particular expression to remember my own sorry state in the engagement line. “Oh, and Honoria, is just... well, she's perfect for the part, Jeeves. I have never met a young woman before who is so ready for her dowager-ship,” I added, without much gusto. 

Jeeves regarded me with what looked for a moment like concern. “If I may venture to say so, sir, you have been uncharacteristically calm about your engagement to Miss Glossop these past few days...”

“Oh... have I?” I suppose I had, come to think of it. “Yes, yes, maybe,” I said vaguely, “One always focusses in on the greatest trauma, I suppose. There's not so much room for the others...”

“Greatest trauma, sir?” asked Jeeves.

“Oh, nothing really, nothing,” I answered quickly. _Really,_ I scolded myself; I had to be more careful.

“Very good, sir. And may I ask, how is Mr. Fink-Nottle coping with his role?”

“Oh, Gussie?” I had to think hard at that point. “Well... he has been around for the past few days, and that's definitely an improvement, isn't it? But the poor chap seems to have developed a terribly bad throat and hasn't been singing. He says that he has practised plenty with just Deirdre and the piano, of course, but he's saving the old vocal chords for later as regards the rest of us.”

“I see, sir,” Jeeves said significantly.

“What do you mean, Jeeves?”

“I hope it will come to nothing, sir, but I have been slightly anxious about Mr. Fink-Nottle's uncanny ability to avoid any kind of vocal performance in proceedings thus far. We are both aware how highly Miss Basset prizes his participation in this particular production, especially owing to the predictions of one Madam Osiris.”

“Oh, piffle, Jeeves,” I said, “Gussie'll be just fine. A bit of a dodgy throat has struck many a greater man in his situation, and he assures me he'll be all right in time for Saturday.”

“As you say, sir,” replied Jeeves, far from convincingly. I took that as my cue to change the subject, lest my self-control completely drain away and I would end up agreeing with everything my toothsome valet suggested, just in case he might agree to-

I stalled that train of thought, just in time. “Well, as I said, I better get on with this now, Jeeves.” I waved my libbi-whatsit around significantly, and made a beeline for the sofa by the window.

“Very good, sir.”

I sat down in earnest, opened up the book and tried to learn my lines. Really, I did. I scanned through all the words, read them backwards, sideways, even forwards, but the little blighters just wouldn't go in. Every time I thought I had managed to lodge a passage in the old noddle, I looked away from the book, tried to bring it back, and them – poof! Gone. Altogether as if I hadn't even seen it in the first place.

After at least half an hour of such fruitless activity, I cried out in frustration, “Oh, I'll never be able to remember all of this, it's just hopeless!” addressing no-one in particular.

Jeeves magically appeared, ready to share my consternation. “You seem perturbed, sir?”

“Yes, I do, Jeeves,” I replied, pretty desperately. “This dreadful carrot thingummy is in two days time, and I'm never going to remember all of these lines. I'm sunk; utterly ruined. Bertram will never again be able to show his face in public after this.” I sighed petulantly and crossed all my limbs together at once.

Jeeves looked thoughtful for a moment and then offered, “If the memorisation process is proving difficult, sir, perhaps I will be able to assist you.” 

“Assist me, Jeeves?” I said, looking up at my valet with big, doey eyes, “If only you were able to learn it all for me, and then magically transfer it from that marvellous fish-fed brain of yours into my feeble helping of fluff between the ears.” 

“Interesting as that concept might be, sir, I had a less mystical method of help in mind. I was alluding merely to that fact that it is often easier to commit material to memory if one reads the cues aloud, and creates external links and associations with particular lines to act as prompts. We could go through the script together and construct such clues to assist your recall on the night.”

That idea sounded as if it might be my saving grace. In fact, I was so convinced of the need to try it (or for that matter, anything of the kind) that my previous convictions about avoiding Jeeves for the sake of self-preservation slipped by the wayside. “Very good, Jeeves. I just hope it will help,” I agreed.

Jeeves produced another copy of the libbi-whatsit from nowhere and cleared the chairs and coffee-table from the centre of the room, leaving just the sofa upon which I was sitting. I watched him adoringly as he glided around, and found myself thinking, for about the one-hundred and fifty-second time that day, how my valet really was wonderful.

He encouraged me to stand, and then read out the first proper cue, “'And what may be your business with Yum-Yum?'”

I thought I might know this bit; I had been looking at it for the past half-an-hour at least. “Well, um...” I started, “Oh! I know, 'A year ago I was a member of the somewhere-or-other town band.'”

“'Titipu,' sir,” corrected Jeeves. “It might help to think of a small bird, such as a blue-tit, flying across the stage and doing something unmentionable upon Miss Houghton-Wright's head.” He then assumed an utterly innocent expression, as if such a notion would have never crossed his esteemed mind.

“Oh, goodness, Jeeves! That's jolly good,” I chortled, “I'll definitely remember that bit now.”

“I'm pleased to hear so, sir,” Jeeves replied, somewhat smugly.

I tried to carry on with the speech. “And then... ah yes! 'I found out that Yum-Yum was engaged to Ko-Ko, the cheap tailor, and I found that my...' What was it? My cap? My trombone? 'and I found out that something of mine was useless...'” I looked to Jeeves for some more help.

“Your 'suit,' sir,” he provided. “It might help to make the connection between Ko-Ko's occupation as a maker of clothes, and the kinds of 'suit' that he would doubtless manufacture.”

“Oh, yes, jolly good, Jeeves!” I cried, deadly impressed, “It's almost as if the lines were planned out like that in the first place, isn't it?”

“Indeed, sir. Almost uncannily so.”

We carried on in this manner, Jeeves making lots of frightfully helpful suggestions for lodging the text between the Wooster ears, and before I knew it, we had paced and declaimed our way through quite a few scenes – first off using the text and then repeating each bit a few times without it. Jeeves had done a marvellous job impersonating all of the other characters, and I was beginning to feel much happier about the whole thing, perhaps even a little confident.

We were just embarking upon one of the final scenes in act one when I realised that this magnificent plan of Jeeves’ was about to lead yours truly into a sticky situation - we were ploughing headlong into a love scene between the hero and heroine. Naturally, the horses that had been pulling my verbal carriage reared up in alarm at the terrain ahead, but there was no way that I could see of stopping the flow of the thing without being properly embarrassing. 

This part of proceedings had never felt at all intimate when I had been reading it through with Madeline in the cavernous hall downstairs, but now, being alone in a room with Jeeves made the same words take on an altogether different polish. I wondered whether I was going to be able to get through it without revealing far too much about the aching heart stowed away inside B. Wooster toward his astonishing valet.

With no other option however, I valiantly carried on with the script. “'Some years ago I had the misfortune to captivate Katisha, an elderly lady of my father's Court. She misconstrued my customary affability into expressions of affection, and claimed me in marriage, under my father's law. My father, the Lucius Junius Brutus of his race,’ I say, Jeeves, that must be some Roman Emperor chappie, don’t you think?” Jeeves answered me with a silent raised eyebrow, “Ah, yes, carrying on then… ‘He ordered me to marry her within a week, or perish ignominiously on the scaffold. That night I fled his Court, and, assuming the disguise of a Second Trombone, I joined the band in which you found me when I had the happiness of seeing you!'” The grin that crossed my dial at that point was not mere acting – love-lorn or no, it was undeniably true that Jeeves given me so much happiness in life.

“‘If you please, I think your Highness had better not come too near. The laws against flirting are excessively severe.’” Jeeves said the line with aplomb, but I noticed that he didn’t actually go along with the stage direction of ‘retreating,’ instead staying calmly at my side. He also put an interesting sort of emphasis on the word ‘excessively’ – almost as if he found all of those silly laws laughable in the first place.

“‘But we are quite alone, and nobody can see us.’” How true that was. And sadly, how irrelevant.

“‘Still that doesn’t make it right. To flirt is capital.’” The same look of disdain was there in Jeeves, joined by a hint of defiance.

“‘It is capital!’” I began free-wheeling, then. “I say, Jeeves, that’s quite a clever little double-meaning there, isn’t it? You know, capital as in a crime, or capital as in ‘spiffing.’”

“Indubitably so, sir. Most amusing.”

“Well, I think the ‘spiffing,’ is better…”

“Quite so, sir.” He gestured back to the book at that point, I thought seeming somewhat chagrined again at the next line. “‘And we must obey the law.’”

“‘Deuce take the law!’” I said that with an awful lot of enthusiasm. Understandably so, I suppose, given the posish in which a chap of my leanings might find himself. It seemed properly unfair that the government should take any part in what two consenting chaps may or may not do together in private. It’s none of their bally business, I say.

“‘I wish it would, but it won’t.’” Jeeves said that quite gently, almost as if he was trying to make sure I understood something.

“‘If it were not for that, how happy we might be.’” And oh, how I meant it.

“‘Happy indeed,’” said Jeeves, in a tone that to my fanciful ears sounded so soft and heartfelt it was almost as if he could have meant it for real. His dark eyes locked with mine, and his expression held a question within those beautiful, silent lips.

I hesitated; my throat tightened, and my eyes caught so firmly within Jeeves’ gaze that I couldn’t have looked down at the text even if I had wanted to. How I wanted to close that meagre distance between us, to embrace him, to kiss him, and confess my love. Jeeves was only an arm’s reach away, yet it might have been a million miles; I could not, I dared not.

Jeeves seemed to be waiting for something, which I’m not completely sure was for me to read the next line. His intense expression held patiently, focussed on me with such anticipation as should only be applied to the actions of better chaps. 

Finally he looked away; the moment was gone. I wonder whether Jeeves had taken pity on me, realising that Bertram simply was not up to doing whatever he might have been silently willing me to do. His lips quirked slightly, in a way that looked both sad and kind at once.

“You are making admirable progress, I think, sir,” my valet said, “I suggest we pause at this point to allow a consolidating effect to take place with the material covered thus far.”

“Very good, Jeeves,” I said, as always grateful to him for leading me by the hand away from whatever quagmire it was that I had nearly become stuck in. “And, Jeeves? Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, sir,” he said, and he really sounded as if he meant it.


	5. Review and Rumpus

As Friday came around, things were really hotting up in the mixed-vegetable department. The fear of public mortification had obviously worked its magic on even the most unlikely of candidates, and Spindleythorpe-on-Sea’s finest hotel was fully awash with girls dying their hair, impromptu musical rehearsals which mightily upset the hotel cat, (the creature was accustomed to sleeping in a sunbeam atop the old piano in the conservatory and did not take kindly to being subjected to mid-nap vibrations that scored highly on the Richter Scale) and the very burliest of chaps practising dainty dance steps out on the veranda. Had Honoria’s father been present, he would have drawn pretty rummy conclusions about the mental states of all involved. Luckily he wasn’t though, and we did at least have a line of defence against any impromptu visits in the form of the aforementioned disgruntled feline.

Thanks to Jeeves' sterling assistance and dashed clever memorisation techniques, I was feeling passable about the whole thing by then. To say 'confident' would definitely be overstating it, and ‘oojah-cum-spiff’ would have been an exaggeration of the direst sort, but the dark cloud of certain doom had lifted a little from the Wooster horizon, and the proverbial met. office was only reporting a fair to poor outlook, with some chance of drizzle as the afternoon went on.

Said drizzle threatened to become a downpour however, when I learned that the afternoon's dress-rehearsal was not to be a private affair. Indeed, Josephine had invited a scribbler from the local newspaper to come and review our efforts, such that she could write-up the whole sorry exhibition in the evening paper and drum up trade for the following day's debacle. To have my failings recorded in print in addition to being impressed upon the minds of those present just seemed like adding insult to injury to me, and I told Jeeves so, as he was sorting out my script after breakfast.

“I understand your consternation, sir,” he said, “But if I may express an opinion on the matter, I do still maintain the view that you will perform admirably.”

“Well, you have more confidence than I, Jeeves,” I replied glumly, although I was most touched that this marvel among men and the very apple of my eye might expect me to be _good_ at something. On the other hand, Jeeves’ encouragement also added to the dread I was feeling – the very last thing I wanted to be to him was an enormous disappointment. Lest any of this turmoil threaten to show up on the Wooster dial however, I decided it was prudent to change the subject at that point, “What have I got to do next, anyway, Jeeves?”

My valet cast his eye over the chart of little, coloured, doom-laden boxes, which he magically seemed to keep within arm-length at all times. “You are due a costume fitting in a few minutes, sir. Would you like for me to accompany you?”

A silence stretched out as I considered my response to that. Every since the being-in-love thingy kicked in, I had discovered that no question had a straight answer any longer. It was dashed difficult, in truth – rather like discovering that the corridor of one’s flat had turned into a labyrinth of Knossosy proportions. Or should it be Knossosian? Or maybe Knossosesque? Anyway, it was like finding out that there now existed a jolly great maze in the place that one had become used to traversing effortlessly between A and B, complete with a colossal monster lurking around the corner ready to visit everlasting woe upon the traveller who takes a wrong turn. The e. w. in this case was of course the risk of Jeeves leaving me were he ever to discover too much about the state of the Wooster affections. I fancied I heard Mr. Minotaur applying the old carborundum stone to his incisors every time I unrolled the proverbial twine by opening my mouth.

Knowing that I could never be too careful, I weighed up the pros and cons of this particular bend in the path. The cons were obvious enough – goodness, if it were not sufficient test of the Wooster resolve to have Jeeves assist in vesting and divesting me in the morning, before dinner and before bedtime, why not just add in some theatrical semi-nudity for extra larks? That should be nice and safe. Ha ha... 

The pros? Well, I suppose they spoke for themselves – every single moment spent in Jeeves’ company was to be adored and treasured; stored up for the dark nights when a double bed suddenly seemed far too large – as had, in fact happened of late, with no apparent change in the actual size of the furniture (I had asked Jeeves to check the dimensions of the offending divan that morning). 

It was clearly sensible to allow the ‘cons’ side of things to win out, but ‘sensible’ has never been a comfortable bedfellow of Bertram, and well, - I was greedy. My steely resolve from the previous day to avoid seeing Jeeves at all costs had by then rather given way to a wish to follow him around like a lost puppy who strongly suspected the object of it’s affections also had half a pound of raw steak secreted in his pocket. A far more dangerous _modus operandi,_ I’m sure, but the whole ‘steely resolve’ gambit probably just isn’t my forte - just ask anyone who saw me try to give up tiddlywinks for Lent this year. Rather like the aforementioned puppy, I was apt to wag my metaphorical tail whenever Jeeves was near, and pine like billy-oh whenever he wasn’t.

I tried to ensure that the Wooster map was clear of the kind of soppy expression that tail-wagging puppies are famous for, and brazened it out with some gambit about practicalities. “Yes, Jeeves, I would like you to come along,” I answered, “After all, someone’s got to know how to tie on all those funny Japanese sashes and suchlike, and I imagine that you’re the man.”

“Very good, sir,” said Jeeves, with a quirk to his lips that looked far more amused than a compliment about knot-tying in the Oriental modus could possibly justify.

We made our way downstairs, but were assaulted mid-staircase by the most extraordinary cacophony emanating from the rooms below. It sounded like a very serious accident in an oil-drum factory, or perhaps as if a violinist had decided to re-string his instrument using cat-gut, but without asking the cat first. Jeeves looked delicately scandalized at all of this, whereas I remained feeling utterly perplexed. 

All was revealed however, when we entered the ballroom to see a very motley crew of so-called musicians huddled around Deirdre in a semi-circle, and hiding behind banners affixed to their music stands. These banners read, ‘Spindleythorpe-on-Sea Local Band,’ embroidered in gold-thread with the kind of zeal that is usually reserved for kneelers in a nearby Parish church.

The band numbered about fourteen in total. They were very well stocked with the kind of rotund brass players one sees oom-pah-pahing through the rain at a park bandstand, and rather less well stocked with the type of swelling, majestic string section that one comes to expect of an orchestra at the Proms. Indeed, the strings were represented by a handful of rather wizened grannies who were squinting through very thick eyeglasses at the music in front of them, the accuracy of the notes paling in comparison to the level of vibrato - which I’m sure was more a result of the aged females’ tremmoring hands than any kind of artistic judgement. To go with this conglomeration were a few tiny, scared-looking woodwind players, and a boy who could have easily disappeared inside the kettle-drums he was proposing to play without much hope of climbing out again in the absence of a rope.

I was afforded little time to contemplate this exciting ensemble however, as Josephine bowled over just then, like a hurricane taking advantage of a spot of low-pressure over the Caribbean. “So that's where you are, Bertram!” she exclaimed, “The costume fitting started half-an-hour ago.”

I was about to take issue with this statement, when I noticed that Jeeves had innocuously unfolded the tabular rectangles of retribution and was peering at them as if thoroughly absorbed, all while angling said paper toward Josephine and myself. It was as clear as the light of day, even to those unaccustomed to being controlled by such a geometric device, that Friday's section began with a costume fitting at 10 ack emma – the time which was showing precisely upon the Wooster pocket watch at that very moment.

“Well, Honoria decided to bring things forward, actually,” said Josephine, rather defensively and most probably miffed at being caught on the hoof, “Not my choice. But anyway, you should be in the tea-room right now. I trust your man is going to make himself useful in a nice, silent fashion?”

“As you say, madam,” responded Jeeves smoothly, while I humphed on his behalf. I couldn't help but think that if Jeeves were to sing this entire mangelwurzel single-handedly, the result would be rather better; trust Josephine to find his brilliance an affront to her casting abilities.

I saw the tell tale signs of a 'chop-chop,' forming on Josephine's lips, but they were quelled by an infinitesimal raise of Jeeves' left eyebrow, in that enormously respectful manner that seems simultaneously to say, 'you dare.'

We went to the tea room as we had been instructed, and found the affable drabness of the chintz- and doiley-clad chamber transformed into something resembling Aladdin's cave. Or possibly Madam Osiris’ pavilion itself, I thought, bringing back a fateful memory from earlier that week. A team of matronly women were busying backwards and forwards between a rail sagging under the weight of unlikely garments in exotic colours, large piles of equally vivid fabric draped haphazardly across the floor and tables, and a row of chaps clad only in their underthings and half-garments, who looked somewhat alarmed at the proximity of tailors' pins to their exposed pinkish skin.

I was greeted by a round and jovial woman with a broad coastal accent, “Aaaww, you must be the young’un playin’ Nanki-Poo, ain’t cha? Jus’ ‘op over there ‘n’ get ‘em off like a good lad. No need t’ be shy – I w’s a nurse all me life, I w’s. Ol' Norma's seen it all before!” She grinned at me then conspiratorially. Jeeves looked slightly faint at the unprecedented familiarity of the woman, but I didn’t really mind. I was about to sacrifice all of my dignity to make a nit-wit of myself in public, after all, so what need had I for deferential treatment in the course of it? 

I toddled over to row of semi-clad chaps and Jeeves assisted me in joining their ranks while Norma pursued with a tape measure. She nodded approvingly a few times after notating the essentials of the Wooster frame, and then scurried over to the sagging costume rail to make some selections. Jeeves followed the good woman, most likely bent on supervising. It is, of course, characteristic of my valet to have strong opinions on what I am and am not allowed to wear, and presumably he felt that Nanki-Poo also fell within his ever-industrious remit.

I was thus left 'not dressed up with no place to go,' as the Americans would have it, so the natural thing was to try to chat to the birds around me. “What-ho!” I called cheerily to the assembled company, wondering what sort of game we could play to pass the time. I was greeted however by only a few distracted nods. The problem was, you see, each of my fellow stage-victims was being attended to by at least one, and in some cases a whole shoal of fishwives. Their ordeals had obviously begun some time previously, because they were long past the rummage-and-wait stage and heavily into the puncture-avoiding part of proceedings. None seemed to be in the mood to chat, using all of their energies to keep a beady eye on exactly where the sharp, pointy metal things were going. Not that I blame them, of course; some of those women looked myopic to say the least. 

Across the room, Jeeves and Norma seemed to be engaged in a lively debate and were gesticulating at one another with matching tassled hats. I concluded from this that she was a braver woman than I if she chose to disagree with Jeeves up to the gesticulating stage, and also that nothing robely was likely to be forthcoming in the near future. 

I was therefore left to just my own thoughts for a while, and it is perhaps understandable, given my recent rather dramatic revelation on the err, _attraction_ side of things, that the Wooster eyes might have wandered to the other partially clothed chaps present. 

Now, before I tell you about this bit, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. It's not as if I had suddenly become an indiscriminately lustful raving beastie, or anything like that - I really only had eyes for the one man, and he was standing over the other side of the room fully dressed. 

No; it was merely that I was curious. I just wanted to get my bearings a little with this whole new world of chaply devotion before I might blunder in without a map and get deadly lost. Much in the same way that the other Drones thought that those unspeakable postcards were the bees-knees even though they had never met the girls in question, I thought it might be useful to eyeball a few chaps and get a handle on the general geography and natural variation of the landscape without having an attachment to any particular one of them. A tiny, ridiculously hopeful part of my brain said that such knowledge might come in dashed helpful were my beautiful valet ever to come to appreciate the Wooster regard, but I tried to hold that voice in check, telling myself that this was to be a purely educational endeavour in the abstract sense. Possibly my first one of those for over a decade, in fact. 

All of my cohorts were respectfully clad in undershirts and boxers, of course, and it was nothing that I hadn't seen before either – merely that I had never really taken any notice on past occasions. Needless to say, any of this sage note-taking would have been ditched in a heartbeat in return for the merest glimpse of Jeeves' left ankle, but that, sadly was not on display. No, as I said: I was going to try to be scholarly about things without all that love and devotion business getting in the way. 

So, trying to be systematic about it, I noticed several things. First and foremost, chaps as a species were pretty pleasant on the eye; safe, appealing, and rather statuesque with no alarming surprises, and a vague aura of fascination about the lot of them. None of the specimens present would have especially recommended themselves for immortalization in marble, truth be told, but they were nevertheless a wholesome bunch and perfectly easy on the eye. 

Then, of course, there were the specifics – Gussie had elegant shoulders but especially knobbly knees, Boko was well put-together across the chest but seemed to have been graced with more limb than the average orangutan, and Tuppy was really rather pudgy around the middle when exposed thus, although did have a prize-worthy softness of skin.  
Each one was however – well, _chaply_ \- in a good sort of way, and although the thought of any of the other Drones en dishabille didn’t do anything for the Wooster pulse or loins, the idea was still calmly agreeable. 

Putting all of these observations together, I heaved an enormous sigh of relief and deemed the oracular exploration a success. You see, it all added oomf to the conclusion I had stumbled toward on the sea-front on Tuesday night, which was certainly a good thing; I wouldn't have wanted to think that I was frightened by the sight of both varieties of potential mate. It also made me feel a bit closer to Jeeves in a funny sort of way – I suppose it seemed as if I now had leave to pine with some proper conviction and weight behind it. Everyone likes to feel justified in their actions, after all, and I was settling in for the long haul in the heartsick-unrequited-pining department.

Just when I had reached this comforting conclusion, the object of said h. u. p. returned bearing a pile of cloth and followed by Norma. The woman was wearing the distinct expression of a person whose artistry had been severely censored – rather like a lady python who had just been told that snakeskin was not in vogue this season. My dashing valet looked inscrutable as always, but I wonder whether it was a coincidence that he then caught my eye, passed his gaze over all the other unclothed chaps, and then returned his gaze to mine with the merest hint of a smile. Coincidence or no, it caused a definite blush to creep out of my lack of collar. Was the man a bally psychic or fortune teller? I ask you.

As quick as a flash, Jeeves had me togged up in all manner of extraordinary garments, with more ties and trusses than would have befitted the average Christmas turkey. I was only vaguely aware of what was being applied to the Wooster corpus, so it came as a surprise when Jeeves wheeled me over to the dressing mirror and I beheld a simply topping ensemble of Japanese red and gold.

“I say, Jeeves! This is jolly natty, what?” I bounced, turning my reflection this way and that.

“This will be your costume for the second act, sir, when Nanki-Poo's princely status has been revealed. Mrs. Brown will use the fittings of these robes to also adjust your dress for the first act.” He nodded kindly to Norma just then. “We are glad that it meets with your approval, sir.”

“I'll say it does! In fact I think I might incorporate the odd Japanese touch into the everyday Wooster kit!”

Then came one of those pointed silences. “I could not think that advisable, sir,” said Jeeves in a tone that brooked no argument.

I certainly didn't want to have a tiff with him – that certainly wouldn't help the swooning and pining business – so I backed down easily, nevertheless feeling somewhat chagrined at the loss of a jaunty tassled hat about the metrop. “Ah well, perhaps not then. But maybe I'll use it for a fancy dress costume...?” Had I been a female I would have fluttered my eyelashes then, but I think Jeeves got the gist all the same.

“A admirable idea, sir,” he consented, “ I shall arrange for us to purchase the outfit after the performance.”

There then followed an exquisitely excruciating period when Jeeves' smooth, expert hands flashed in and out of the robes, coming dangerously close to all different parts of the Wooster anatomy, causing them to shiver in anticipation of his almost-touch. Naturally, Jeeves took the whole episode in his stride with expert aplomb, but I was positively a-quiver with repressed whatsit. In fact, I hadn't even noticed that I was thoroughly glistening with devilishly sharp metal pins until Jeeves stepped back from his handiwork and nodded in satisfaction at hem lines that couldn't have been made straighter with a spirit-level. 

“Ooh! Takes it like a man, that one, don't 'e?” said Norma, in some peculiar admiration of yours truly.

“I feel confident that Mr. Wooster could be described thus,” replied Jeeves rather haughtily, “And it is also clear that he does not flinch during the attachment of pins.” Jeeves plastered on his stuffed-frog expression just then, which made a great contrast with Norma's loud and bawdy chortle. I looked at Jeeves in bafflement, and was answered with no explanation but one of those tiny not-quite smiles, which made my insides turn all gooey and also made me forget whatever it was she was laughing about.

Costumes dealt with, we then had a few hours spare to drill some more lines through the Wooster onion and warm-up the old vocal chords a bit. Bingo was sweating and panting as he tried to move what looked like a whole cherry tree in a pot into the hotel ballroom, and Josephine was dividing her time between strutting around barking indiscriminate orders at members of the cast, and trying to butter-up the woman who I gathered was the representative of the local press. 

Said r. of l.p. was a strapping creature sitting on that fine line between beazel and battleaxe – not quite auntly material, but definitely working on it. She was clad in bright colours, and although the style of her shirt and blouse was traditional enough, it had a slight whiff of the exotic about it, set off by hair that had too much of a life of its own to be called properly matronly. She sported a clip-board and pen, and gazed down at her notes through half-moon spectacles that were perched jauntily at the end of her nose like a precarious young fisherman on the pier, and inlayed with mother of pearl around their frames. 

Through the lenses, her eyes twinkled at us almost like a dare. Here, I judged, was a woman who would never be shy about denouncing something dreadful, but at the same time basically wanted to be entertained and was willing to give things a fair go. I figured, given this show of even-handedness, that we now had approximately thirty seconds on stage before crash-and-burn, as opposed to the assumed zero.

When I presented Jeeves with this theory, he merely raised an eyebrow in disagreement and said once again, “I believe that you will perform admirably, sir,” then drilled me on some more lines. The marvellous man is very seldom wrong, but I really didn't know whether to believe him.

*****

In actual fact, I don't think I shall go into details regarding the dressed rehearsal. In all honesty, it was too painful to recall. 

Everything that might have possibly gone wrong accepted the kind invitation to do so – the orchestra was rarely in the same place as the singers (and often in a different number entirely), the sets were all knocked over by the gents’ chorus lumbering hither and yon in their so-called 'dances,' and barely a line was said without a prompt from off-stage. 

The true moment of horror came however, with Gussie's first musical number. The orchestra scratched their way through the intro., Deirdre waved at Gussie from her stand, and then-

Nothing. He merely stood there with a glazed expression not unlike a particularly dim newt. Perhaps he had been taking lessons. 

Deirdre waved around in consternation for a while and then she resolved to get the band to play the introduction again. Still nothing from Gussie - although he did seem to be growing increasingly redder and began to shake slightly. In the mean-time, Josephine was fuming in the wings with such vigour, I'm sure Jeeves could have cooked up a whole pan of eggs and b. from the steam coming out of her ears. 

However, just before she could scream, “Augustus!” Gussie launched into the most extraordinary rant, standing in splendid isolation in the middle of the stage.

“I won't do it! I won't, I won't, I won't!” he screeched, “You can't make me. I simply shan't! I can't. I've never been able to sing. Not a note. However much you push, I still won't be able to do it... and, and... I'm... I'm going!” With that he tore the fringed cap from his head and threw it at the stage, running out of the ballroom and through the hotel's main doors without a backward glance at the stunned roomful of fellow actors and journalist. 

An eerie silence stretched out over Gussie's departure and all of us on stage stood gawping in shock. But then, a funny thing – or perhaps I should say, an even funnier thing - happened. The newspaper lady put down her clipboard and peered around the room at us. Without warning, her face then split into the broadest of grins and she began to applaud wildly, shouting, “Bravo!” and “More!” to the stage and in the general direction of Gussie's tumultuous exit.

We actors blinked in absolute surprise, and were pretty unsure of what to do next. Tuppy however was pretty quick off the mark. He fast-forwarded the action to his next line after all the Lord High Executioner stuff, and we just carried on from there - with Josephine reading in Gussie's lines from off-stage - and managed to awkwardly stumble through until the end of the first act. 

We sighed with relief as the chorus ended Act One, but almost no time was afforded for a mock-interval. The reporter-lady was apparently on the way to another appointment, so we hurled ourselves at the second act shortly afterwards, Honoria hurling herself in my direction at every possible opportunity. Quite remarkably, the metaphorical curtain managed to close at the end of the final number - as opposed to at any of the excruciating moments beforehand that is, when any right-thinking theatre-goer would have packed up his opera-glasses and left. 

We tumbled out of the ballroom feeling properly shell-shocked and dejected, but of course all the talk was about what on earth had happened to Gussie.

“Well I say, that's just not cricket!” exclaimed Tuppy loudly, “The rest of us have to go through all of this larking about on stage, so why does he think he can get out of it by throwing a hissy-fit and storming off?”

“Deplorable behaviour,” decreed Honoria.

“I couldn't agree more,” said Bingo, while keeping a nervous eye upon Josephine. Perhaps he suspected that preventing the comedy-baritone from doing a runner mid-performance might have been one of the assistant producer’s responsibilities, and didn’t want to take any chances with being found in dereliction of duty.

Looking rather puzzled, Barmy asked, “You mean, that speech that Gussie said just now, wasn't actually in the script, then?” The rest of us pretended not to hear that one.

Jeeves met me as I headed back to the Tea Room, which was still functioning as the gents' changing room. He helped to remove and fold up the costume, and yours truly was soon clad in more accustomed garb once more. Throughout, I was bombarding the poor chap with tales of just how awfully everything had come apart, even though he had clearly seen it for himself, just minutes beforehand. 

Jeeves however, seemed singularly unperturbed, and as he straightened from tying my shoelaces addressed me in a clear, deliberate tone. “Try not to trouble yourself regarding tomorrow's performance, sir. It is well known in theatrical circles that a somewhat distressing dressed rehearsal often precipitates the very best kind of final production.”

With that, he adjusted my tie with a final expert move, and I was left feeling torn between my impulse to carry on being a proper Moaning Minnie, and the urge to simply believe the pronouncement of this paragon among men and stop worrying so. Jeeves does, after all, have that kind of mesmerising effect upon me, and I was feeling particularly prone to being comforted just then, however irrational it might have seemed in the face of theatrical adversity. In the end I merely gaped at him for a while, probably looking slightly less intelligent than usual.

Jeeves took my silence to mean the end of the conversation, so he asked permission to work his magic elsewhere. “Sir, if I may have leave to speak with Miss Whittleworth for a moment?”

“Miss Whittleworth? Who on earth is that, Jeeves?” I asked. Everything seemed most topsy-turvey just then, and introducing new people into the scenario wasn't much of a help.

“The Musical Director, sir,” replied Jeeves, putting a delicate emphasis on the word 'musical' such that one might actually interpret the word to mean quite the opposite.

“Oh Deirdre? Yes, certainly, Jeeves,” I said, rather distractedly.

“Thank you, sir,” my valet replied, and melted off into the conservatory.

I then wandered out of the Tea Room on my own, thinking that a nice large cocktail at the hotel bar might work wonders for the State of the Wooster. However, my G & T remained as distant as a shimmering mirage of an oasis in the desert, because Madeline then accosted me - bearing the distinct look of a female on a mission.

“Bertie! My dearest Bertie, my very own Nanki-Poo!” she cried.

“Err… what-ho, Madeline,” I said, thinking that her salutation was a bit OTT, given that we had seen each other about fifteen minutes previously.

“Oh Bertie, let us go and walk together under the stars, such that the heavenly spheres themselves may shine upon us this evening, and the fluffy bunnies might be able to bless our union...” She then locked her arm firmly through mine and steered us both in the direction of the front door.

Things were looking pretty desperate in the G & T department just then, so I struck up a good, sturdy objection, “Um… yes. But, err… it’s still daylight! The stars aren’t out yet, are they? Oh dear, what a pity.” I attempted to tack back to the bar, but the blasted filly was having none of it.

“Well, I’m sure they will smile upon us anyway, won’t they? Bertie, this is important!” I felt there was a serious danger of stamping-of-tiny-feet ensuing just then, so I acquiesced and promised myself a double tipple for my trouble when I was released. 

The rummy thing is, of course, that I had been so tied-up in lamenting the loss of my trip to the watering-hole, that the implications of Madeline’s opening gambit had failed to set-off the proper alarm-bells in the Wooster brain. As Madeline and I strolled along the sea-front, I was therefore totally unprepared for what happened next.

“So Bertie, how do you feel, knowing that after all your sweet and silent longing these past few months, I can finally be yours?” She fixed me with a boggle-eyed gaze, and I knew then that this was serious.

“You can finally be mine?” I repeated inanely.

“Why yes, Bertie! Now that my engagement to Augustus has been fatally broken, I am free to be your wife in the way you have always dreamed.”

I was right then; this _was_ serious. I tried desperately to think of some way out that would not violate the Code of the Woosters, but dredged up nothing but the mental equivalent of an old boot. Valiantly however, I struggled on, donning the aforementioned o. b. with as much grace as I could muster. “Erm. Don’t you think you’re being a little hasty there, Madeline, old thing? I mean, we’re all feeling a bit miffed with Gussie at the moment, granted, but err… singing-aside, he really is a splendid chap – very kind to his newts and suchlike - and I wouldn’t want to break up the two of you over a little thing like this when you’re so clearly in love…”

“How you prove with every word that you are indeed my perfect match, Bertram! So kind and selfless; concerned even for the fate of your rival above yourself.” Her eyes took on a somewhat maniacal glow of confidence.

“Erm, no…I...” I protested.

“Hush, my dear. I understand your natural shyness, but let me assure you that Augustus’ recent misdemeanour is not in itself the reason that my engagement to him must cease to be. No, the reason for is far deeper – written in the stars themselves, and the spirits.” She looked upwards then, no doubt to evoke the power of said stars. As I had mentioned earlier however, the effect was rather spoilt by the fact that it was still broad daylight.

“Oh? And what do the stars have to say, exactly?” I asked with trepidation.

“Surely you remember, Bertie? We had our fortunes read together just three days ago. Madam Osiris told me that my one true love, my intended partner, would be someone who I appeared with on stage. It was foolish of me to think that Augustus would have been the one. Even if he hadn’t let us down so dreadfully today, it is clear from the operetta that you and I - Nanki-Poo and Yum-Yum – are the happy couple that the spirits meant.”

 _Oh, Hel-lo,_ I thought. This was all getting rather difficult now, bringing divine pronouncements into the affair. It was made doubly difficult by the fact that her mention of those predictions brought my painful, brooding love for Jeeves right to the front of my mind, and in the face of said p. b. l. , anything that Madeline might trouble me with seemed pretty insignificant. Jeeves was the one I was predicted to be in love with, and that was that. With such a thought in mind, I blurted out, “It’s no good, Madeline! Madam Osiris has already predicted that I love another, and my heart is bound.”

I gasped as soon as I had said it. Surely even a chap with as little between the ears as I should be able to refrain from confessing to apparently-criminal predilections in public, after all. Strangely however, Madeline seemed pretty unperturbed. “You are such a noble fellow, Bertie, but Honoria cannot stand in the way of the spirits’ true predictions.”

That was odd. “Honoria? How does she come into…?” My mind was all a-twirl; I had been thinking about my tall, dark, dashing valet, and… 

Ah. I had quite forgotten about that. I rescued myself just in time, “Ah, yes, well, so that’s dashed inconvenient then, isn’t it? Me being engaged to Honoria and all that. I suppose the spirits will have to go back to the drawing board vis. you and I then, won’t they? Shucks, eh?” I laughed nervously.

“No Bertie, my dear, for your sake I will not hear of it!” she exclaimed, “It is you and I who shall be wed, according to your most heartfelt and long-lasting wish, and I have every confidence that all will fall into place. In fact, I shall telephone straight away and set the arrangements in train.” Madeline then beamed at me as if she was imparting the most wonderful news.

“Oh, ah. Right then,” I said lamely, and could think of nothing else to add before Madeline squeezed my hand and skipped off back to the hotel, no doubt making a bee-line for the nearest telephone.

I was left on the prom feeling pretty vacant, and watching as Madeline's fluffy blonde head disappeared out of sight. I was still grumpy about having forfeited my G & T, but strangely, that sinking feeling of dread that usually accosts the Wooster gullet upon the occasion of becoming unwilling engaged was absent. It was more as if I was viewing the problem from an exterior perspective while my sense of consideration was detained elsewhere – perhaps in a box-office queue, or by playing an over-long game of snooker.

I _knew_ the whole engagement fix was big trouble - intellectually speaking - but I couldn't seem to muster the mustard to really _care_ about it. Instead, there was just a sort of vague emptiness - a bit like the echo a lone traveler would get in an underground tunnel.

An impartial witness might have said I took it remarkably well, all things considered. Perhaps that was because the new posish with Madeline didn’t really seem to make the big picture much worse. If I was going to be doomed to being engaged to one unsuitable female when I was really hopelessly in love with my valet, why not make it two? Or a dozen for that matter? Put into perspective like that, any number of beazels couldn't do much to further reduce the Wooster spirits, as chance of nuptial happiness for me was already firmly on ice. 

Strangely enough that realization fortified me – by power of a metally feeling to which I was not really accustomed. Was it copperony? No, that's not right. Maybe nickelony then? Aha - I have it. I was fortified by a strange sense of _irony._

I returned to the hotel with far more thoughts and introspections swirling around in my brain than I would have wagered could fit in one go. In fact, I was so absorbed by contemplating my apparently hopeless state that I failed to notice Jeeves waiting at the front door of the hotel until I was practically upon him (not, of course, in the Biblical sense, I shall add, just in case the more creative reader might become unduly carried away).

I gazed up to my dashing and dashingly unobtainable valet as he stood above me on the doorstep, no doubt patiently contemplating whatever silly thing was written across the Wooster dial. I had pretty much given up trying to hide my feelings from Jeeves just then. Injudicious perhaps; but that effort on top of everything else was just bally well too much for the old bean to cope with.

He nodded politely as a few people with instrument cases pushed past and thanked him for something or other, and then addressed me with a concerned demeanor. "Good evening, sir. Are you quite well?"

"Yes, Jeeves, yes..." I said automatically, but then amended that to, "Well no, dash it, I'm not." I didn't really think of where the conversation might go from there, but being honest with Jeeves was a reflex too strong to suppress.

"I am distressed to hear so, sir," he replied. That brought the metally sensation back with full force - how distressed indeed Jeeves might have been, had he known that aching passion for _him_ was the real source of my upset. He then coughed subtly in that way he does when he is about to raise a delicate matter, and carried on. "I couldn't help but overhear Miss Bassett talking with some members of the ladies' chorus as I was standing in the hallway just now, sir. She seemed to be excited by an understanding she has reached with you, on the basis of Madam Osiris' predictions."

"Oh no... That too," I muttered, vaguely thinking that I ought to be paying more attention to those rummy circs. Love of the unrequited variety did seem to be pretty all-consuming though, leaving precious little room for anything else. Especially when there wasn't much space in the old coconut to begin with. I tried hard to meet Jeeves' conversation however, and remarked, "Yes, apparently I'm going to have to marry Madeline now. And Honoria for that matter. Why don't they just tear me down the middle and put me out of my misery in the process?"

"Not a course of action that I would advise, sir. Although you do quite accurately express the difficulty of the situation on your part."

I perked up a little at that. A faint whiff of praise from Jeeves was a balm to the Wooster soul, and I picked up the stride of the thing. "Thank you, Jeeves. I just don't believe the gall of these girls sometimes - thinking they know exactly what Madam Osiris meant, if the description so happens to vaguely fit one of them or the other. Why, I have a good mind to think that the spirits didn't actually mean either of them!"

"Indeed, sir," pronounced Jeeves, with perhaps a little more feeling than usual.

"And anyway," I continued, "What happened to all of the proported sisterliness, I ask you? It was only a few days ago that Madeline was castigating me in no uncertain terms about applying a certain rodentine moniker to 'dear Honoria,' and now she's proposing to waltz in a steal another filly's intended without a backward glance at the matter."

"To paraphrase a famous novelist, sir, 'those girls do have claws beneath their white gloves.'"

"Well, I'm better off without them, say I," I ranted.

" _Indeed,_ sir."

I ran out of steam at that point however, and was forced to look upon the matter more rationally. Well, when I say 'rationally,' I suppose I really mean that I just gave the thing a bit of an eyeball. As opposed to completely ignoring it in favour of pining over Jeeves, as had been my wont, that is. I heaved a heavy sigh, and did what I always did in these rummy circs. I asked Jeeves for advice.

He nodded in a satisfied manner, as if he had been waiting for some time for yours truly to finally catch-up to the problem-solving stage of the predic., then launched into one of those clever ideas. "Not wanting to cast aspersions upon your attractiveness to the fairer sex, sir…" he started.

"Oh no, cast away, Jeeves!" I said, feeling a blush creeping over my cheeks at the thought. I'd far rather Jeeves started talking about any potential attraction I might offer to _his_ sex, I fancied... but then scalded myself for wandering. _No, Bertram_ I told myself firmly. I had to stay on-topic.

"Very good, sir," Jeeves continued, "Miss Glossop is a hearty young woman, sir, but I fancy that she also holds a rigid view of the boundaries of respectability. Therefore, if an aspect of your character were seen to overstep one of those boundaries, she might be of the opinion that her union to you is not advisable."

"You mean, make her go off me somehow or other, Jeeves?"

"Yes, sir. I believe we could accomplish that."

"Oh yes, wonderful, Jeeves! Anything at all if it would get me off the hook." It all sounded dreadfully simple when he put it like that. All I had to do was something that Honoria would find less than respectable. Now, I wagered that I often managed to do things that would fall into that category without trying at all – staying in bed until eleven, for instance, or playing at piggy-back races in the club – so surely doing something like that on purpose would not be beyond the wit of Wooster. Jeeves really was a marvel, I thought. And for once, his clever plan was so simple that even I could be trusted to pull off my part of it without mishap. The day already seemed marginally brighter.

However, Honoria was only half of the problem, and the thought of lifelong sparkly stars and fluffy bunnies brought me swiftly back to the matter in hand. "But what about the blasted Bassett girl, Jeeves? How do I get out of that one?" I asked.

"A different tack may be required in that case, sir, but arguably the path is more direct. It occurs to me, sir, that Miss Bassett might quite simply cease her persual of you if Mr. Fink-Nottle were indeed to agree to perform with her in stage, and thus fulfill the prophecy to which she has become so firmly devoted."

"Because Madeline and Gussie really are each other's Dream Rabbits deep down, you mean, Jeeves?"

"Not exactly the zoological reference I had in mind, sir, but I believe the meaning holds nevertheless."

I followed his plan that far, but then I saw a gaping flaw in the idea. What a dashed pity. 

I supposed though, that even Jeeves is human like the rest of us. It was properly fitting of my devotion not to be hard on him when one of his plans failed to meet the usual top-notch standard, so I tried to communicate that as gently as possible. "A very nice scheme, old thing, but I really don't think it will work," I said, maybe a little dejectedly.

"Sir?" asked Jeeves.

"Well, you heard Gussie," I continued, "He simply won't go on stage. Not come fire or flood. Categorically, and finally. I really wouldn't want to pin my hopes of reprieve upon him changing his mind on that one." 

Jeeves nodded, but I couldn’t help thinking he hadn’t quite taken what I had just said on board. “You have recounted the occasion accurately, sir. However, I do indeed believe that Mr. Fink-Nottle might be persuaded to perform under certain conditions.”

I was really touched by the amount of thought he was putting into the wheeze, but I was also sure it wasn’t any use. “No really, Jeeves. I know Gussie, and that’s the most worked-up I have ever seen him. I swear it’s hopeless.” A little harsh perhaps - especially as Jeeves was doing his best to think my way out of the soup - but I didn't want to go about building castles in the water at that point. Or the air, for that matter. Indeed, whatever the natural habitat of the unwanted fortifications, my delicate state of mind just then really couldn't stand their construction; I would just have to get used to being doomed.

"Very good, sir," acknowledged Jeeves, closing the matter and showing off his feudal spirit in its best light. He inclined his head toward the door and we both went into the hotel, me to the bar, and he to his temporary lair.

As I sat sipping my long-overdue G & T however, I mulled over Jeeves' words along with my own and got the most uncanny feeling about the whole affair, even though I couldn't quite put my finger on it. The specifics were far from clear, but I couldn't help but think there was something he was not quite telling me.


	6. Passion and Performance

“This is it then, Jeeves. The dreadful day finally dawns.” My lids were barely open when Jeeves shimmered into view, bearing the accustomed cup of tea and expression of polite composure. 

“If you are referring to this evening’s performance, sir, your assessment of the date is indeed correct.”

I tried to bury my head under the pillow (old habits die hard) but Jeeves chose exactly that moment to fluff up the thing, thus making my hiding place less than effective. I emerged looking sulky. “Ah, well, you might as well just dispatch me now then, Jeeves old thing. I’d be much obliged if you could just add a pinch of cyanide to my morning cupful instead of the lemon.”

“I do not believe that course of action will be necessary, sir,” Jeeves replied, completely unruffled, “And the respiration-inhibiting substance to which you allude would most probably disagree with the flavour of the leaf somewhat unpleasantly.”

I harrumphed a little at that, but took my tame, citrus-filled version from him anyway. As I drank, I tried not to think about exactly what the evening would bring. For that matter, I didn’t really have much to go on. Not a lot had happened after the dress rehearsal the previous day. We had eaten dinner and then gone to bed early, most people avoiding the subject of tomatoes altogether. Gussie was still missing, and as far as I knew, he remained so. His hotel room had not been slept in, apparently, but neither had he packed up his belongings and checked out.

One might have thought that losing one of the principal actors at this stage would result in the whole debacle being cancelled, but unfortunately there was no such luck to be had. Josephine had decreed that the show would go on regardless, and no-one had mustered the courage to argue when she had stated that the role of the Lord High Executioner would be adequately accounted for, and that we had no cause to fret. 

It all seemed so perfectly, laughably disastrous that I was tempted to up sticks myself and hare back to London that morning, but Josephine’s threat re. her friendship with the accursed Aunt Agatha weighed heavily upon the Wooster regard, forcing me to stay and see it through.

Sighing, I handed the empty cup back to Jeeves, suppressing a squeak of delight as our hands touched in the process. He fixed me with one of those bone-meltingly intense expressions for the slightest second, and then slipped away to draw my bath.

During the course of the night, my confused sentimental state regarding Bassetts, Glossops and the man of my dreams seemed to have straightened itself out a little. I do mean _a little_ here, by the way; the picture of clarity, I certainly was not. Nevertheless, I _had_ reached a solid conclusion of sorts - namely that it was far better to contemplate a future with Jeeves at my side as my valet, than to not have him at all. The melancholy wanderings of resigning myself to fate and throwing all of life to the wind had lost their shine a bit; I think that I’m the kind of chap who is too fond of his afternoon tea and game of golf for the tragic poet countenance to be a very good fit.

Following this logic through therefore, if I was going to retain Jeeves on a modest man-and-master level (given the lack of opportunity for anything else), I had to make damned sure that I didn’t end up married. It is a well known fact that the first thing a beazel will do when she has snagged an unsuspecting chap is to get rid of his valet, and besides, Jeeves has in the past made a point of saying that he will not work for married men.

I hadn’t the foggiest what to do about the Bassett problem, and simply hoped that Jeeves might come up with an improved scheme for sorting that one out. He didn’t usually fail me, after all, and I suspected that the previous evening’s soggy suggestion was a mere aberration. 

That aside, and considering the fact that I was trying to be a man of system and action, I resolved that my first task for the day was to try to whittle down the list of obstacles in the way of remaining a be-valeted bachelor where I could - namely garnering Honoria’s hearty disapproval.

*****

I encountered Miss Glossop as she was locked in an urgently whispered conversation with Josephine in the hotel lobby, and straight away saw my first window of opportunity – namely the chance to interrupt rudely. I therefore sailed right up to the pair of them and called, “What-ho, Honoria! Do you mind if I borrow you for a moment right now?”

Josephine looked rather put-out at this, and I was fully expecting Honoria to concur and send me away with a flea in my ear. However, the course of true non-love never does run smooth. Or at least it never does for me, at any rate. Honoria threw a conspiratorial glance of some sort to Josephine and said, “Certainly Bertie, that would be delightful,” before locking her arm with mine and steering us into the conservatory with the kind of force one of those Wild West chappies might use on a recalcitrant horse.

“Now Bertram, we haven't had much time to discuss the wedding arrangements these past few days, but I just want to assure you that it's all going ahead swimmingly,” Honoria announced, “Or it will be, anyway, as soon as Mummy and Daddy are back home from their stay in New York. I have chosen all of my bridesmaids and have started looking at dresses.”

At that point I seized my first chance to put her off. “Oh yes, on the subject of wedding attire,” I started, “I haven't actually told you this before, but it's a family tradition of mine that the groom is obliged to wear... um... bright orange.” That should do the trick, I thought. If the beazel was even half as particular as Jeeves is about proper attire for such occasions, the threat of being seen near such a ghastly get-up should have her running for the hills.

However, instead of the expression of dread that I was expecting, the bally girl let out an almighty laugh. “Oh Bertie, you are funny!”

“Um, no... I'm serious...” I protested.

She fixed me with an indulgent look, and replied with a fair whiff of sarcasm. “Well, it's a good job the wedding photographs will be taken in sepia then, isn't it? I'm sure the _orange_ will look just like a grey morning suit in print. Now, getting back to the topic in hand, I was thinking about where we should live when we are married-”

 _Where we should live?_ That kind of comment was enough to make the Wooster blood run cold. Evasive action was needed immediately.

“I slurp my soup, you know!” I blurted out.

“Pardon, Bertram? You do what?” She seemed a little miffed at being interrupted, which was slight progress, at least.

“Yes, I... um… slurp my soup. And I eat with a knife sometimes! Once, I was even reprimanded by Lord Witherspoon for having my elbows on the table. I just thought I ought to warn you… um, Honoria. It would be only fair to give you the chance to... err... reconsider...”

I was rewarded for my efforts by a hearty blow between the shoulder-blades that would have knocked the air from a sizeable cathedral organ. “What a card, you are, Bertie!” Honoria roared, “And how very sweet of you to bring these things up now. I had thought that I would get to work on your table manners straight after we are married, but since you seem surprisingly self-aware, we can make a start now! I rather think I'm going to enjoy making something of you, Bertram Wooster. It's always nice to have a project, of sorts.”

“Oh, right... good... ha ha...” This was getting desperate. “And, um... I lay-in terribly late in the mornings. Jeeves often doesn't hear me stir until almost noon, as it happens.” That was quite a thing to confess to girl who believes in the health-giving benefits of country walks commencing before dawn, but I reasoned that I would happily endure any related public criticism in return for getting off the hook in the matrimony department.

“Fear not, my dear Bertram,” replied Honoria however, to my great disquiet, “Those habits will be easy to change. It will be impossible for you to sleep for too long when we have a crying infant in the house. Won't it, what?”

The mere idea made me feel quite green – on the grounds of both living with this supposed c. i., and the activity which would be required of me to leading to its manufacture. Indeed, I fancy I was well camouflaged with the huge aspidistra just to my left, and might have been swaying in a similar fashion. 

It seemed then that I had firmly lost the battle in which I had so blithely engaged. _Engaged_ being the most bally appropriate term, of course. My sense of defeat was underlined at that point, as Josephine sailed into the conservatory. She ignored me completely of course, and addressed Honoria with a sense of urgency. “So, does he know where he is?”

“Alas not,” replied Honoria, “Or at least he hasn't mentioned it. You don't know where Augustus is, do you Bertram?”

Such a swift change of subject put me slightly off course, and brought back the other, theatrically-related feeling of impending doom rather effectively. “Erm, no. I don't.”

“Pity,” replied Josephine, “Doesn't your valet tell you anything?”

“My valet? What's all this about Jeeves?” I asked, but it was too late. Josephine and Honoria had already linked arms and wandered off, no doubt plotting the demise of some other poor chap in the little coloured box that remained before lunch.

I was left feeling curious as to what those bally beazels had meant re. my adored valet, so went off in search of Jeeves. It was not a long search however, as I found him standing in the hotel lobby, awaiting me with almost clairvoyant precision of timing as the sunlight glinted off his brillianted hair.

“I say, Jeeves,” I said, somewhat agitated.

“Yes, sir?”

“Josephine and that blasted Glossop just said something about something that you might have not told me. Does that ring any bells?”

Jeeves followed my description most attentively, but then pursed his lips in that way I find utterly delightful and said, “I am afraid it does not, sir.” His expression then became completely implacable, and I could be sure that I wasn’t going to get anything else out of him on the subject. If there even was a subject there at all, that is.

“Ah well, who knows what those dreadful girls might be on about, eh?” I finished.

“The female psyche is indeed an unusual and oft inexplicable permutation of the transmissions in the pre-frontal cortex of that sex, sir,” corroborated Jeeves. He’d lost me there a bit, but it sounded jolly clever all the same. 

Unfortunately, his statement also reminded me of my failure to wriggle out of the impending long walk down a short aisle. “Talking of inexplicable female whatdjmacallits, Jeeves, Honoria didn’t seem nearly bothered enough by the more irregular habits of Bertram. I didn’t manage to get myself off the hook,” I told him, dejectedly.

“Most unfortunate, sir,” replied Jeeves, with a tone sufficiently smooth to suggest that he might not have even expected me to be successful in the first place. If only he knew how much of my heart was riding on these latest extrications - viz his continued presence as a subject of adoration in the Wooster homestead!

“The bally girl didn’t even flinch when I told her about the family tradition of mine that the groom has to wear bright orange when declaring nuptials!” I declared in exasperation.

Jeeves went suddenly pale. He looked perfectly still and very cold, as if he had suffered a tremendous shock. “ _Orange,_ sir?” he whispered.

I realised then what a rummy thing I had just done to the poor chap. For someone as impeccable as Jeeves, such an affront upon the esteemed dress-code of formal daytime occasions would be tantamount to threatening to squash his pet kitten under a steam iron. Not that Jeeves had a kitten to my knowledge, of course. But if he did, I would have wanted to treat it with the utmost care.

I set about rectifying my mistake with haste. “Oh no, Jeeves, please don’t worry!” I said quickly, “It was only a joke. A wheeze, I mean; for Honoria’s benefit. I wouldn’t really want to wear bright orange when we - I mean, when _I_ get married.”

“I am relieved to hear so, sir,” said Jeeves. His expression of shock was replaced by one of relief, perhaps mingled with a kind of triumph that I couldn’t quite place. I had not the opportunity to dwell upon it, however, as Jeeves produced a newspaper of some kind, carefully folded open to highlight a particular article, and handed it to me. “You may be interested to read the review of our production of ‘The Mikado,’ sir. At her word, Ms. Siriso ensured that it was published in yesterday’s evening paper.”

That was not quite music to the Wooster ears, I can tell you. The last thing I wanted to do was read in black and white how terrible I was and how disastrous this evening was due to be - especially in front of my brilliant man who seemed to have placed so much faith in me. 

Alas, it was clearly too late to save my embarrassment – Jeeves had read the bally thing already – so I just tried to avoid depressing myself further. “I don't think I can take it, Jeeves,” I said, “Why don't you just give me the potted version to save the young master the trauma? If you wouldn't mind reading out a few edited highlights... just so I know the worst, you understand.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Jeeves. He then cleared his throat and ruffled the paper rather dramatically before beginning to read aloud. “'A veritable treat is in store for we residents of Spindleythorpe-on-Sea this Saturday evening, as a young and progressive theatre troupe bring a daringly updated version of Gilbert and Sullivan's 'Mikado' to town.'” He paused and quirked an eyebrow in my direction. “'This fresh crop of London bards are to present-day audiences what Diaghilev's Ballet Russe would have been to patrons at the turn of the century.'”

“Dee-aggy-who, Jeeves?” I asked. I couldn't work out whether the comparison was a good thing or a dashed rummy thing.

“Sergei Diaghilev was a great impresario of the Russian ballet and theatre, sir,” replied Jeeves, “His productions were fêted as the finest examples of the modern school of dance, oft pushing the boundaries of contemporary artistic convention.” He paused while I nodded, in a way that I hope looked cultured. “The review then continues to mention some of the performers by name, sir. In particular: 'Mr. Bertram Wooster, playing Nanki-Poo has a pleasant light baritone, and affects just the right kind of spirited vacancy required by the role. He is pleasantly complemented by the airy Miss Madeline Bassett in the role of Yum Yum and opposed by the commanding Miss Honoria Glossop in the role of the dowager, Katisha.'” 

Jeeves paused again, and his eyebrows seemed to say, 'just wait until you hear the next bit.' He read, “'The finest performance of the evening undoubtedly comes from Mr. Augustus Fink-Nottle however, whose splendid comic turn takes this production into the realm of the edgy and surreal theatre that is now cutting its way across the West End and Broadway. We are honoured to have such proponents of the new radical genre in our provincial play-house this weekend.'”

Jeeves folded the newspaper neatly while I tried to take all that in. I was flabbergasted! “You mean to say, Jeeves, that reviewing lady, actually _liked_ us? As in, thought that we were _good?_ ”

“That would certainly seem to be the case, sir,” Jeeves replied.

“Well, I'll be dashed!”

“Indeed, sir,” said Jeeves with feeling. “However, if I may suggest so, sir, I feel that the audience this evening might prefer a more traditional version of the operetta, containing perhaps a greater proportion of the notes and words that Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan intended.”

“Um, yes. Quite right, Jeeves. Let’s do it by the book then,” I concurred.

With that point in agreement, Jeeves saw that I had an ample lunch (which contained plenty of brain-nourishing fish, if I remember correctly), and he kept me on an even keel encouragement-wise as we counted down the hours and minutes to the time I was due at the theatre. I was pretty nervous, but managed to keep the old bean together on the whole. I was buoyed by that rather charming review in the press, I imagine, and helped no end by Jeeves’ careful drilling of my lines and calming tone of voice, which could probably make me feel safe in the middle of an earthquake, or one of those huge tidal waves called Sue-thingummy, for that matter.

It was inevitable I suppose, that the sands of time should slip through the fingers of whatsit, and I would find myself entering the large and slightly shabby edifice that is the Crenellation Theatre: Spindleythorpe-on-Sea's finest bastion of the arts. Jeeves explained who I was to the doorman when we arrived, who then greeted us warmly in the broad, coastal accent of these parts, and informed us that tickets had been selling like the proverbial incinerated Marie-Antoinette fodder ever since that review was put about the day before.

This news made me feel quite excited, to tell the truth, but also caused butterflies to flit around in the Wooster insides somewhat. I gazed up at the fading gold tassels and scuffed stucco of the foyer. Not the grandest theatre I had been to, by a long chalk, but quite grand enough considering that I was going to be on the dangerous side of the safety curtain in there. I supposed the only thing for it at that point was to full-steam-ahead and try to come out of the other end relatively unscathed – I really didn't know how pro. actors managed to do this sort of thing all the time. I was woken from my musings however, by the doorman asking us to follow him downstairs, so follow him we did – down a steep and rather dusty flight into the bowels of the theatre.

Although at that particular point in time, my mind was certainly not awash with the joys of having a starring role in an alarmingly well-attended vegetable festival, there was one obvious perk to being the leading chap. Namely - one gets a dashed good dressing room! I might even confess to feeling a little thrill of pride when I was escorted along the corridor to a door that had ‘Mr. Bertram Wooster, Nanki Poo’ emblazoned on the outside in neat, calligraphic letters, and felt quite the star on seeing the size of the chamber and how well it had been appointed.

Indeed, there was the customary theatrical dressing table and wardrobe, and I noticed that it had already been well stocked with the requisite Japanese attire from before and various potions that Jeeves assured me he would know where to daub on my visage, when the time came. We also had several plush chairs and a very comfy-looking day-bed, which I suppose might have been the ‘casting couch’ that the Drones had mentioned the other night, whatever that was, exactly. In fact, all would have been spiffing were it not for the fact that upon seeing the actuality of it all, the aforementioned butterflies had by now grown to Amazonian proportions and were attempting to communicate with Mr. Livingstone himself using an advanced form of lepidopteran semaphore.

“How long do I have left, Jeeves?” I asked nervously. “Is B. Wooster yet due to draw his last few breaths as an unashamed man?”

“There is ample time in hand, sir; we arrived somewhat early at the theatre. Please try to relax yourself for the time being, and we can begin costume and make-up presently.”

“Jolly good, jolly good,” I said, trying not to catch his eye. In truth, that assertion by Jeeves just heaped yet another worry onto the Wooster brow. As I mentioned before, in the days since my dizzying revelation re: my ardent love for my valet, all mentions and instances of adding or removing clothing had gained a noticeable _frisson._ It was obviously a core duty of the gentleman’s personal gentleman to assist with shirts and trousers, and such-like, and Jeeves had been nothing other than his usual meticulous self in these matters. I however – especially after the costume fitting the previous day - was reaching my wits’ end, with those wonderful, smooth, capable hands of his flitting so close to the Wooster frame and then whispering off again, leaving me all but crying out for a proper application of said s. c. h. to many and various parts of Bertram’s anatomy. It was all I could do not to shudder merely thinking about it.

Such thoughts of longing and sweet torture were probably painted all over my face at that moment, leading my ever-attentive valet to ask, “Is something else the matter, sir?”

“No… no, not at all,” I lied, most unconvincingly. Jeeves’ expression displayed that he had not been fooled for one second, so I had to rootle around for a publicly acceptable explanation. “It’s just that… I’m feeling dashed dejected about all this business with Honoria, Jeeves. And Madeline, for that matter.” That at least, was perfectly true, even though it had not been on my mind in the preceding moments.

“Ah. Understandably so, sir.”

“Yes.” Actually, the more I dwelt on it, the more I did feel like a condemned man on the matrimony front, and the gravity of the situation once again crashed down on me, like a concrete block on a spring. Maybe the last time that Bertram would be able to wriggle had passed, I thought to myself. In an unaccustomed moment of grimness, I even considered that perhaps I might as well marry some awful girl, given that there was absolutely no chance of getting together with the person who was really the apple of my eye. Ever since Cupid’s arrow had done its work, my chances of being truly content in my gay bachelor existence had gone out of the window. Certainly, I wanted to cling on to Jeeves like billy-oh as my valet if I could have nothing else, but everything was tinged distinctly maudlin again, like the poems of one of those Victorian-Gothic chappies. _At least if I marry, the aunts will be happy,_ I thought despairingly, and considered that someone or other might as well end up pleased after all this mess. But then there was Jeeves… and I was so very head over tail in love with Jeeves! And… and…

...All of these different feelings were bubbling around in my breast, repeating themselves and arguing with each other and my head was throbbing from the fact that it had never ever been required to hold so many different contrary thoughts at once. I was just not built for complexity of this kind, and after such a trying week, the Wooster steamer was so under pressure it would surely blow a gasket. It was all simply too much.

In fact, said gasket blew in short order after that, and was of the verbal kind. “Oh well, dash it, Jeeves,” I exclaimed in defeat, “Perhaps I should just marry one of them and be done with it. It’s not as if I have the slightest hope of the engagement that I would really like, so I should just sign myself up to a Glossop or a Bassett and forget about me for good.”

“Sir?” said Jeeves politely. He then fixed me with an enquiring expression.

“Well yes, Jeeves. I might have reached the end of the line here - point of no return; Despair Canyon. What else is a chap to do when all the odds are against him?” I felt so exasperated and desperate the words just tumbled forth without much instruction from me.

“I am most distressed to hear this sir. But I was enquiring as to the other, more favourable, yet less feasible engagement prospect, to which you just alluded.”

“Did I?” Pure, unbridled panic at that point, naturally. I was brought back to the immediate present with a resounding crash. How on earth could I have let that one slip? 

“Yes sir, you did,” Jeeves replied calmly. He then politely raised his eyebrows in expectation of an answer.

“Oh, um… right,” I said, “Yes, I suppose I did. And well, Jeeves. Well, indeed. I suppose you are wondering as to the nature of the other, somewhat impossible err… interaction, eh?” I flannelled desperately for a way of digging myself out of this one, but without Jeeves’ help it was dashed difficult.

“Yes, sir. That question is certainly foremost in my mind, if you would permit me the curiosity?” He leaned forward slightly, a beam of light from the window picking up accents in his gorgeous, shiny hair.

The curiosity? Oh goodness, I would then have permitted Jeeves so many things in addition to curiosity just then, the list would be far too long to notate. I was, however, clearly in a dilemma. Naturally, I couldn’t tell Jeeves the truth, nor could I retract the revelation that had occurred thus far. Also, the last thing I wanted to do was to make up that I was pining over some filly or other, lest Jeeves’ marvellous fish-fed brain concoct a scheme to have me spliced with _her,_ whoever she might be. What a rummy situation for a chap to find himself in. 

In the end, honesty seemed like if not the best, then the only available policy. “I’m not entirely sure I can tell you, Jeeves,” I managed, and then looked at the parquet flooring as if it held some great universal secret.

“I see, sir. I understand it is a sensitive matter.” My valet paused thoughtfully. “If however, you happen to see fit to enlighten me, sir, I will do all I can to assist you in achieving your goal.”

 _Oh Jeeves!_ My heart did a little somersault at that point, and then landed in an even deeper quagmire. _‘Assist me,’_ indeed. I was, as ever, enormously touched by his generosity with the old grey matter, but now felt in an even stickier situation.

“Thank you, Jeeves, but I think there’s little that can be done. I have no idea how the other party might feel about yours truly, and there’s absolutely no way I, or anyone else for that matter, would be able to ask without risking something really very terrible.” I thought that was pretty diplomatic, under the circs.

“I see, sir,” replied Jeeves, “However, you seem most distressed. I do confess to feeling rather… concerned.” Was it my imagination, or was Jeeves much closer to me then than he had been a few minutes previously? And why did the expression on his face at that moment make me want to throw my resolve to the wind and kiss him on the lips, then and there? 

The room suddenly seemed unbearably hot, and I could feel a flush climbing up my cheeks. Any ability I might have had for producing a self-preserving subterfuge had long departed; I could only speak from the heart. "Well you see, the thing is, it's dashed difficult to pluck up the courage to do something about it, not knowing what the other party is going to think, and all… so I just end up tying myself in knots about the whole thing..."

"Most distressing, sir." I noticed then that Jeeves was speaking in a low and syrupy tone that sent shivers along every single vertebra I owned. Was he really so close now that I could feel his delicate breath upon my face? The air in the room was depleting very rapidly, and my throat felt as if I had just swallowed a hippopotamus, and a large one, at that.

"Well yes, it is, dash it!" I was feeling pretty frantic by now, like the butt of some enormous cosmic joke. How on earth could I have come to be engaged about a conversation on the traumas of unrequited love with the very subject of said u.l.? Whoever out there it was who had a voodoo-thingy of B. Wooster, he was clearly having a field-day with my little effigy just then. It would have been sporting had he seen fit to dunk the mini-Bertram into a bucket of cold water at that point, but alas no such solace was offered to my predicament, supernatural or otherwise.

More out of desperation than judgement, and the fact that my natural tendency when in a jamb was to my valet for advice - however inappropriate that may have been, under the circumstances - I then blurted out, "What do you think I ought to do about it, Jeeves?"

He fixed me with that wonderful fathomless gaze and I was certain that I would expire from the sheer intensity of it. If I hadn't known better, I would have sworn that I saw the corner of his mouth twitch upwards, as if he was enjoying my state of fluster. "In the circumstances you describe, sir, it would be most agreeable if the parties involved might be persuadable to declare their tender feelings simultaneously.”

“You mean, as if there might be a chance that the whole love-struck symptoms are, well… reciprocal?” It was a thought that I barely dared to entertain, but Jeeves’ advice was always so sound, I found myself being swept along with his train of thought.

“Yes, sir. That way, neither party would have to make himself particularly vulnerable, without the other party also being in an empathic state.”

I took all that in, and it seemed like a capital idea. "Oh, on the count of three, you mean?" I asked, somewhat more perkily.

Jeeves regarded me quizzically for a moment and then quirked his gorgeous lips once more. "An unconventional employment of that system, sir, but I imagine it could be made to work adequately."

I nodded at his approval, and then settled into the very serious business of counting. "Right then," I said, "Um. Well, 'one,' I suppose."

"Very good, Sir." Jeeves leaned still nearer to me; that gaze boring into my eyes as if he could read every last item written in the Wooster brain through my very pupils. The hippopotamus started doing somersaults.

"And err...'two,'" I squeaked.

"Quite so, Sir." Jeeves held my gaze just as deeply, but seemed to be moving his arms as he did so. I was then aware, in some blissful corner of my mind that wasn't all-consumed by the acrobatic hippopotamus, that Jeeves had placed his hands - those wonderful, large, capable hands - around my waist. I was being _held._

I was just about to utter the syllable 'three,' with the remaining atom of oxygen I had at my disposal when I felt myself becoming so close to Jeeves it was almost scandalous. He was melting into my field of vision, so near I could no longer see him properly, and then all of a sudden we seemed to be touching. 

Touching at the lips! 

My brain, addled as it admittedly was, then lost entirely all ability for rational thought and instead turned into some kind of sponge for absorbing sensations. I could feel Jeeves' soft mouth beneath mine and it was moving slowly and sensually, coaxing me to do the same. I felt the hands that had been resting at my waist move around to my back, touching and holding and stroking, and the solid weight of Jeeves pressed closely to me. I could feel the heat radiating through his immaculate clothes. 

My bones turned to jelly and I clung to Jeeves for dear life, lest he would have to mop me up later as a puddle on the floor. Just when it seemed that nothing could be more wonderful, I felt a gentle invasion into my mouth, and immediately met Jeeves' tongue with my own. There was then an extraordinary groan that might have come from me, and Jeeves seemed to shudder and hold me even more tightly, until we were both utterly beyond reason and intent only upon one another and all the assorted grabbing, stroking and moaning that was taking place. Steamy stuff, I can tell you!

After what might have been hours we broke apart, flushed and breathless. Although he quickly recovered his usual poise, I saw in Jeeves a look of such hunger and dishevelment in that second that I would not have thought him capable. I was probably gaping in shock and bewilderment that all of my Christmases and birthdays had seemed to come at once, as Jeeves prompted me to say something with his svelte raised eyebrow.

"Well Jeeves, that was...um...extraordinary!" I spluttered.

"Indeed it was, sir." He suddenly seemed altogether so calm and unruffled I had to close my eyes for a second just to check that I hadn't imagined what had just happened. 

I then realised that I was both amazingly happy, and absolutely, completely rudderless. 

The Grandest Plan of my Wildest Dreams, you see, had involved vast amounts of wondering and internal torture, all culminating in a brave and wild declaration that may or may not have led the way of happiness. What lay the other side of that declaration was totally uncharted territory, into which I seemed to have already and unexpectedly blundered. 

So many questions were thronging around inside my head at that point, or at least they were attempting to. In actual fact, not very much rational thronging was occurring at all, if I am to be honest, because all was obscured by a very thick cloud of lust that focussed on the tell-tale glow still present in Jeeves' cheeks and the glistening moisture on his plump bottom lip.

Finally, I managed to ask, " Well, Jeeves, what happens now?" and continued to gape rather vacantly, I imagine.

"In situations such as this, sir, it might be deemed appropriate for us to remove some clothing and continue our explorations in a more horizontal manner." He gave me that knowing smile once again, and gestured toward the conveniently-placed dressing-room couch.

To me, this seemed like a perfectly topping idea, so I quickly moved in the direction Jeeves had indicated, and noticed him follow me across the room.

Then, out of nowhere, I was suddenly assaulted by the most terrible thought, which must have been generated by the inherited Code of the Woosters that I harbour. What if I was about to put Jeeves in a compromising position against his wishes? One hears of chambermaids and so-forth being terribly used by the Lord of the Manor, or suchlike, who do nothing about it - simply out of fear and to uphold the old feudal spirit. Much as a part of me might have _wanted_ to add such services to the job description of my valet, my respect and tenderness for Jeeves in his own right would never have entertained the idea. I had to know for certain that he was a fully playing member in this game of ours, else I did not want it to continue.

"I say, Jeeves," I managed, between shaking breaths.

"Yes, sir?" he asked smoothly, coming around to face me.

"Much as this is perfectly marvellous, I would never want you do engage in anything err... _personal_ with me against your wishes. I understand that you pride yourself in being the very best gentleman's personal gentleman this side of the Atlantic, and quite possibly over there, too, but umm... I'd rather you resign than feel forced into anything." My eyes were open wide, and although I don't usually guard my feelings particularly carefully, I was fully aware that I was fully wearing my heart on my lapel, or cuff, or wherever it is that people generally wear their hearts. I managed a quick chuckle. "You see, Jeeves, I'm just not sure about manhandling my manservant. I don't want to be one of those blighters."

Throughout my heartfelt speech however, Jeeves had been displaying that expression on his dial that says, 'Wooster, you're being an utter idiot'. Of course, he would never admit to the veracity of that translation, but I know it, all the same. 

He then drew a long-suffering breath and said, "Sir, I am most touched by your hesitancy, but let me assure you, both on grounds of my professional conscientiousness and personal inclinations, that it is not required." Then in a voice that was made of molten chocolate he leaned over and whispered in my ear, "I would dearly like you to touch every inch of my naked body, and I am most keen to return the favour."

At that delicious sound, and the meaning it carried, something inside me utterly snapped. Without forethought, I thoroughly launched myself at Jeeves and we both landed upon the soft cushions of the couch. He then moved towards me and we began kissing again - more vigorously this time, if it were possible - and his clever hands began reaching for my clothing, making short work of buttons, clasps and ties until there was very little left on either of our upper-halves.

I could hardly believe the bally wonderfulness of it all, and was vaguely considering whether such amazing circs. might just be the fevered imaginings of a delirious Wooster brain. Was I due to awaken from such a beautiful dream at any moment, by force of the dreaded alarm clock? As if some malevolent force had heard my musings, Jeeves and I were suddenly rent apart by an almighty-

RRRRIIIIINNNG!

A deafening bell sent the air ricocheting around the dressing room, and Josephine’s voice could be heard bellowing in the corridor, “Act One beginners to the stage, please. Act One beginners to the stage.”

Naturally, Jeeves was the first to recover his wits at this point. “My sincere apologies, sir. I had no idea that the time was passing so… rapidly. We have the overture and opening chorus to get you ready for the stage, which should be manageable.” With an almost magical slight of hand, Jeeves had managed to both dress himself and finish undressing me during that sentence, and he was already half way across the room, making a bee-line for the costume-rail.

I was so disorientated, it was the most I could do to stand upright and proffer limbs in the correct sequence as Jeeves dashed around me like a dervish with sashes, wigs, kimono-thingummies, and more make-up than is seen on the ground floor of Selfridge's.

After a few moments, he stepped backwards to admire his handiwork, and nodded in a satisfied manner. “Most oriental. This way please, sir.” Jeeves then propelled me through the door, up a very dark staircase, and into what were apparently the wings of the theatre. I recognised that the gentleman’s opening chorus was over half-way through, and I was due to make my entrance as Nanki-Poo in under thirty seconds’ – we had got there in the nick of time.

The rummy thing was however, that my brain was so clouded with happenings and barely requited longings, I had severe trouble remembering the first line. Everything about Bertram spelled panic at that moment; of that, I’m sure.

Almost as if he could read my thoughts, Jeeves whispered, “ ‘Gentlemen, I pray you tell me…’” in my ear, just before he pulled back the black curtain of the wings and gave me a hearty push into the blinding light of the stage.

The orchestra played the opening chord of my recit, and then…

…Miraculously, I sang something. I actually managed to open up my mouth and sing what might have even been the right words on an approximation of what might have been the notes that Mr. Sulli-thingy notated all those years ago. I am still astounded to this day that it happened, but happen it did.

I got through the recit, and then the orchestra launched smoothly into the intro to my aria. Deirdre was spinning her arms around like a rather crazed windmill, and all the rugby players on stage were looking at me with exaggeratedly quizzical expressions, just as they had been instructed so to do. It then occurred to me that this performing business might actually be a little bit fun.

Indeed, the Wooster gusto had been engaged and I launched full-voice into the Minstrel song - and jolly good it was too, even if I say so myself! The audience certainly seemed to think so, and I was utterly amazed by the amount of applause that yours truly generated at the end of that rendition. Far better than the usual type of after-dinner crowd, that’s for sure.

All carried on in a suitable fashion – Tuppy coming and doing his thing as Pooh-Bah to not a small number of chortles, and before I knew it, we’d come to the end of the next chorus too. 

This was supposed to be Gussie’s big moment. I could feel everyone on stage tense up in anticipation – and quite right, too - considering that I, for one, didn't even know if he was in the town, let alone waiting backstage. Josephine had assured us that, 'all would be taken care of and that we weren't to fret,' but such a thing is easier said than done when one is standing beneath the hot lemon-light, I can tell you.

The pause before Gussie’s number extended ominously, and I think we all feared the worst. However, just before it started to look properly embarrassing, a figure was rather boisterously assisted onto the stage, and Gussie was standing there in all his splendour as the Lord High Executioner.

Deirdre took his appearance as her cue, and the music started. Gussie blinked, stirred, then swallowed hard, looking rather like a Persian cat about to produce a furball. We all appeared pretty queasy on his behalf as well, I imagine. 

Imagine the surprise and delight then, when he actually came in, in the right place! Those of us on stage breathed an enormous sigh of relief as the show carried on, and tried to remember what we had to do next. However, among all that, I couldn’t help but notice that something funny was going on.

Gussie was certainly there, and his lips were moving in the correct fashion. However, the voice that rang around the auditorium was so surpassingly crisp, clear and beautiful it was difficult to reconcile that sound with the valiantly quaking personage at the front of the stage. 

Upon consideration, it seemed as if said s. c. c. and b. voice was actually coming from behind the black curtains, not from Gussie himself. I wondered for a moment whether he had suddenly become some type of heavenly ventriloquist, but then I realised that Gussie was, in fact, only miming. A quick glance into the wings told me that such gorgeous sounds were really spilling forth from the lips of my very own Jeeves! - From the self-same lips that only minutes earlier I had been kissing, I reminded myself in an utter thrill of smugness. It really was an extraordinary wheeze!

The audience seemed to be fooled well enough though, and were once again generous with their applause. Such spirits held firmly throughout Madeline's entrance with the ladies' chorus, and they did a splendid job with all of the assorted giggling, fan-wafting and teasing of poor old Tuppy. 

Amazingly, the orchestra kept up with the singers throughout every number, and were even playing with the odd touch of panache. Quite a transformation seemed to have undergone that band of assorted bruisers, grannies and squirts - who were actually watching Deirdre's manic - yet unmistakably clear - beat, and producing a sound that if not fully professional, was certainly no embarrassment. It was almost as if the lot of the them been coached intensively over the past few days by someone who really knew what he was doing, and I silently thanked the mystery tutor for his efforts.

Dippy as she was, Madeline held the spectators in the palm of her hand, and she and I got through that soppy love scene without disaster - even though I was almost fatally distracted by my memories of reading it through with Jeeves a couple of days before, and had to grope around for the next line a few times. Then Gussie came back and strutted around a bit (again augmented by Jeeves from off-stage), various and sundry people including myself either did or didn’t suffer some kind of stuffy, unpleasant death, and we all skipped around in either panic or joy during the odd patter song and madrigal.

And then, to my utter astonishment, we had already got through the Act One finale – Honoria blazing on for her star turn at the end – and the audience erupted into a frenzy of applause! Now, I don't mean that churlish kind of slow-clapping that goes on when some cove is being terribly boring or acting an utter blockhead, you know. This was the real banana – proper tumultuous peals of the stuff, perhaps even mixed with the odd cat-call. The velvet drapery closed around us and we unfroze from the final pose, looking a bit shell-shocked and more than a bit pleased.

Of course, I was as cheerful as anyone about the progress of the broccoli and I heartily exchanged congratulations with everyone on the thing thus far, but the Wooster brain was also fully charged with electrifying memories of that whatever-it-was with Jeeves that had happened minutes before I had been rushed onto stage. Certain other parts of the Wooster anatomy were rather keen to pick up where we had left off, as well. I spied Jeeves in his position in the wings, and waved at him with all the joys of spring, gesturing that we two should sneak off somewhere post-haste. I was answered however, only by a slightly raised eyebrow of the most professional variety atop the patented stuffed-frog expression. This visual cold-shoulder was somewhat of a shock to my giddy state, as I'm sure you can imagine.

Had he forgotten what had happened? Had I just dreamt it all up? Or worse, did Jeeves consider it to be some dreadful aberration that he wanted to ignore and forget altogether?

Just as the pit of doom was opening beneath my feet however, a bit of a light bulb turned on upstairs. Was it possible that Jeeves was just _pretending_ to be all non-bothered about the thing, as a kind of smoke-screen? Yes, that sounded sensible actually. It was undeniable that society might view what had happened between us as a bit, um... thingummy, and it was just like Jeeves to think ahead about that side of things when I was leaping all over the place like a performing sea lion in sight of a particularly tasty pinstripe mackerel. I decided therefore to can the comedics and go in search of Jeeves (who had by then disappeared into the dark recesses of the theatre) to suggest a rendezvous in a perfectly discreet fashion. 

My course set, I walked backstage to try to ascertain where he had got to. However, I was thwarted in this attempt by Madeline. Well, by Madeline and Gussie to be precise – locked in the kind of fierce embrace that took every advantage of the shadows cast by the hanging blacks. I tried to creep past without disturbing them, but alas, stealth has never been one of my strong points – just ask anyone who knows about cow-creamers.

Madeline broke away from her newt-loving lover, an expression of shock and trauma painted across her dippy features. “Oh goodness. My dear Bertram!” she exclaimed.

“Err... what-ho Madeline,” I said distractedly, trying to see past her for a glimpse of Jeeves.

“How awful for you. I mean, how awful of me. I am so sorry, Bertie. I should have talked to you first.” She came towards me then and clasped both of her my hands in hers, a look of great pity and regret swimming across her girlish map.

In truth, it took me a moment to cotton on to what she meant, but a few glances between Madeline and a triumphant-looking Gussie did the trick. _I'm off the hook!_ I thought; this day was getting better and better! My natural inclination then was to grin like that disappearing cat from some county up north, but I was careful not to seem rude – Code of the Woosters, you understand. I therefore tried to compensate by schooling my features into a bit of a frown, just to look fittingly sombre under the circs.

Unfortunately, it seemed as if I had gingered up the frowning thing a bit too much, as Madeline became even more distressed. “Oh Bertie, please don't cry. I understand your pain, really I do. I would never have wanted you to be this devastated, but you must see that nothing can be done. Augustus and I are pre-ordained – it's written in the stars that we will be together forever, and have whole flocks of little bunny rabbits at our side.”

“And newts,” added Gussie, not to be outdone.

“Oh. Ah... I see,” I said, not knowing quite what the proper response should be, and realising that my natural inclination of, 'hurrah!' wasn't quite the thing. 

“Try not to be too downhearted though, Bertie,” continued Madeline, “You mustn't worry about all of the planning and preparation going to waste – I can just wire through to say that the wedding is still going ahead, and all they have to do is change the name of the groom on the invitation cards. Besides, Mummy and Daddy won't even realise there has been a change. They're away in New York and wouldn't have got my first message while the servants were dealing with things. So you see, hardly anyone will be discommoded!” She grinned at me as if a lack of administrative tribulation was supposed to have made up for supposedly breaking a chap's heart, and then giggled when Gussie whispered something in her ear.

“Well, spiffing then,” I said, “No problem at all. I'll just be going along now...” I tried to make a break for it, by now pretty desperate to locate my wondrous valet. Madeline and Gussie certainly weren't perturbed by my attempt at departure, but unfortunately I didn't get very far, as Josephine stomped towards us bearing piles of red and gold satin.

“There you all are!” she snapped, as if backstage in a theatre was a particularly odd place to find three amateur actors, “Bertram, Augustus, do hurry up and get changed for the second act.” She thrust the bundles towards us then, which upon closer inspection turned out to be those dashed snazzy costumes for act two. “Chop, chop!”

I seized my opportunity then. “Jolly good, Josephine. I'll just go and find Jeeves to help me change.”

“No, you can't, Jeeves is busy,” she told me firmly, “The oboist broke her last reed at the end of the first act and no-one else knows how to make more of them.” My disappointment at that must have showed, for I was quickly scalded again, “I'm sure you can manage without him, Bertram. But just in case, I shall send Honoria over to help with the ties and scarves. And don't go sneaking off anywhere downstairs! I want you to stay here backstage where I can find you. You nearly gave me a heart-attack being so late to arrive for your entry in Act One.” With that, Josephine stalked off, no doubt to find someone else to domineer.

Somewhat crushed over the lack of valet, I found a quiet and relatively well lit corner between some hanging drapes and did my best with the de-togging and re-togging business - although I was pretty unaccustomed to having to undertake such things solo. I doubt whether I would have actually been successful with the intricacies of Japanese dress, but I never got the chance to find out. As good as her accomplice's word, Honoria sailed over to assist.

“Are you decent, Bertie?” she called from around the side of the curtain, “I suppose it won't matter soon, will it? When we're married, I mean. – Ha ha!”

I vocalised a shudder at that, which she might have interpreted as a laugh, I suppose. “Yes, um... all safe, that is.” Those big dressing-gown kimono-thingies protect one's modesty completely, so I emerged from my hiding place to face her.

“So far, so good,” said Honoria, eyeing me critically. “Now we attach the obi like this-” Honoria wrapped something around my middle and then tugged so hard tears sprang to my eyes and every scrap of air was forcibly evacuated from the Wooster lungs.

“Not so tight...” I squeaked. There was no way I could have breathed just then, much less sang.

“Oh, you are a fragile young thing, aren't you, Bertie?” Honoria roared. “Don't worry, I'll toughen you up when we're married!” She then gave me back the use of my diaphragm, and attached various other cords to the Wooster personage, thankfully with a little more delicacy. The whole thing just gave me one more reason to be so bally grateful for Jeeves and all his works, and multiplied the wish to once again be in the arms of my man.

Sadly, it was not to be. The bell rung indicating the end of the interval as Honoria tied the final knot, and I was propelled into my starting position for Act Two – which was unfortunately on the other side of the stage from Jeeves' singing station.

Madeline seemed as buoyed as a helium-filled seagull by her reaffirmation of relations with old Gussie. She opened the second act singing about a forthcoming wedding with the kind of enthusiasm that could only be expressed by a genuine bride of the blushing variety. It was also with a light heart that I skipped on and celebrated the happy forthcoming union of Nanki-Poo and Yum-Yum, knowing full well that the circs were now fully, one-hundred percent fictitious in that regard.

Unfortunately, the same could not be said for my mood when Nanki-Poo looked to be trapped in marriage to Katisha. Honoria really did do a topping performance as the terrifying old wench of proceedings – no wonder she was Josephine's favourite. I imagine the audience gave me more credit than was due for my acting abilities when Nanki-Poo was clamped to Katisha's breast; that look of horror was almost entirely genuine, I can assure you.

Gussie made a fair fist of remembering all of his lines and positionings on the boards, and Jeeves continued to supply the most mellifluous sounds from his hiding-place at the side of the stage. The rummy thing was though, there was not a single moment in the whole stick of celery that allowed me to dash over to his side of the darkened curtains. Any thoughts I may have had of myself and Jeeves availing ourselves of the shadows in the manner of Gussie and Madeline went totally by the by. On reflection, that was probably a good thing from the perspective of the show – if I had indeed been afforded the opportunity to place my paws upon Jeeves' immaculate person it would have taken more than a stampede of cross wildebeest to prize me away. Having said that, a stampede of cross Josephines might just have done it.

Mr. Gilbert's plot twisted and turned as was its wont, and I dare say the audience might have felt they were riding on one of those marvellous rolling-coaster thingies. We all knew that it was going to be all right in the end though. Nanki-Poo evaded the clutches of the dreadful Katisha and got his beloved Yum-Yum. Katisha reconciled herself with Ko-Ko instead, and we all evaded the boiling oil and melted lead. Most agreeable, even if I do say so myself, and judging by the cries from the stalls, so did our charming spectators. As the applause tumbled around for what felt like a glorious approximation of forever, I found myself thinking that the denizens of Spindleythorpe-on-Sea were not at all bad ova, after all.

Finally, the curtains closed for the final time and I confess to feeling a funny kind of elation about the whole thing. We were all pretty liberal with the hugs and congratulations, and I daresay that several of those dashing costumes ended up smeared in face-paint in the process. I was dazed, but basically happy. It had honestly gone well; I hadn't apparently made a laughing stock of myself in public, and – early mornings and little coloured boxes aside – it had actually been rather fun. I even began to see why old Bicky Bickersteth has such an addiction to the theatrical lifestyle. That buzz one gets at the end of a show amid all the relief and smiles and cheering is second only to the feelings engendered in a right-thinking chap when he is kissed passionately by his valet. 

On the subject of said valet, I was determined to succeed where I had failed in the interval and locate Jeeves, chiefly with the intention of picking up in the dressing room at the point where we had been so rudely interrupted. I spied him off stage to the right and dashed over post-haste. Unfortunately, the backstage lights were now fully glaring and lots of people were milling around, so I could not address him quite in the manner I would have wished.

Nevertheless, I bounded over. “What-ho, Jeeves!” I called.

“Good evening, sir,” he replied, “And may I offer you my congratulations for a stirring performance?”

“Oh gosh, thanks very much, old thing,” I said, and then began gesturing with my eyes toward the door in a most urgent and animated fashion. “How about we duck off downstairs now, Jeeves?” I asked, and then added for bonus verisimilitude, “I could do with a hand taking off all this garb, you know.”

Unfortunately, Jeeves was not given the chance to answer, because just like the proverbial bad shilling, Josephine came over and interrupted. “No Bertie, you will have to manage on your own. Just leave your costume in the dressing room when you have changed and Jeeves can go and sort it out later. Right now we need him on stage to begin the get-out and de-rig. These things don't happen by themselves, you know.”

“Very good, Madam,” said Jeeves smoothly. He then addressed me while Josephine stood impatiently waiting for movement, “With your permission sir, I shall assist the technical crew here, and then make your acquaintance once again at this evening's party back at the hotel.”

I felt like saying that it was not bally-well not all right, and that I wanted to be kissed again with an urgency surpassing that of rigging or any other sundry nautical pursuit. However, under the beady eye of her Royal Directorness the most I could manage was, “Very well, Jeeves,” before sulkily descending the stairs to my dressing room.

*****

That evening, the usually sleepy Palace Hotel at Spindleythorpe-on-Sea had taken on a rather festal atmosphere. The bar had agreed to stay open late into the evening, and the staff had prepared a lavish buffet supper for us in the ballroom which was waiting when we trooped in - tired, happy and still smeared with the remnants of several gallons of grease-paint. They had also set up a gramophone on a side-table with a sizeable stack of discs, and by the time I arrived, there was already a crowd of the gents' chorus around it, eagerly debating the merits of one recording over another. The party atmosphere was indeed in full swing, with strains of 'Minnie the Moocher' echoing around the high, dusty ceiling and disturbing the odd recumbent spider in the process.

I joined them with aplomb, and even dashed off a Charleston or two with some of the fillies as they trickled in. The champers flowed freely, loosening-up even the stiffest violinists of the lot. I think I even saw Deirdre being twirled around girlishly by a very burly second trombonist. 

As for me, I was genuine in my celebration of the ratatouille and all, and I _was_ enjoying the party, but I must confess my eyes kept darting to the door in hopes of seeing Jeeves again – what on earth could have been taking so long?

Practically everyone had made an appearance an hour into proceedings, and I was beginning to feel a little glum, truth be told. However, just as I was contemplating taking myself off into a corner, the door opened once more to reveal the final members of our crowd. Josephine and Honoria had their arms fiercely linked in pride and mutual congratulation, as Bingo skittered around at Josephine's side trying to be noticed. Most importantly for me, Jeeves followed behind them at a respectful distance, tall, strong and immaculate as always.

I knew that in these circs., Jeeves would come straight over to me, to see if there was anything the young master wanted. The rummy thing was though, so did the other three of them. Was I never to be allowed a moment alone with my man?

Honoria greeted me with the self-same rib-crushing embrace that I had suffered on numerous occasions that week. I vaguely wondered whether I actually had any bones left to break in that thawing part of my body, but it seemed I did. No, it's not 'thawing' exactly, is it? That chest-like region of me, I mean. Aha, 'thoracic' – that's the blighter. 

“Oh, Bertie, don't you think we made a superb couple on stage?” called Honoria directly in my ear, “I'm sure that when we're man and wife, life will imitate art just as wonderfully.”

That was certainly a train of thought I didn't want to catch – not even as far as the next town when I was standing at a countryside holt in the pouring rain. I therefore decided to deflect her with some small-talk. “Well, congratulations on the singing and all, Honoria, old thing,” I said.

“Why thank you, Bertie!” she returned, and Josephine even nodded in approval at my compliment. “I do think it all went rather well. I say, you don't happen to have a copy of our review that was printed in the Spindleythorpe Sentinel yesterday, do you? Mine was lost somewhere at the theatre and I'd love to have another read of it.”

Bingo cringed a little just then, perhaps supposing that keeping tabs on such things was one of the duties of the assistant-producer cum dogsbody.

“Erm, yes... Well, maybe,” I answered thoughtfully, “Jeeves read some of it to me yesterday as it happens. Do we still have the paper, Jeeves?”

Jeeves smoothly stirred into action as he was addressed. It really is amazing how he can come out of dormancy just like that, and be right there, on the button. If it were me, I'd be daydreaming while everyone else jawed endlessly and it would take a fair while to return back to earth and answer the call. I suppose that's why he's the expert valet and I'm not. “Indeed we do, sir,” Jeeves informed me.

“Might I have a quick look, then?” asked Honoria.

“Of course,” I agreed, “Where is it at the mo, Jeeves?”

“The newspaper is stowed safely in your hotel bedroom, sir, among your other important documents. If you would permit me sir, I suggest that I escort Miss Glossop upstairs to your suite now, such that she might peruse the article there in comfort.”

“Oh, yes. Jolly good, Jeeves,” I agreed, and the two of them disappeared up the stairs, leaving me to feel chipper at the departure of one, down in the dumps at the vanishment of the other, and a bit peeved about the irony of the whole thing.

‘ _Honoria,_ going upstairs with Jeeves, indeed,’ I thought indignantly. Just my rummy luck! I didn't quite know what I was up to, but I had thoughts for what might occur in that room that night, and they certainly didn't involve much in the way of sleeping. I would have paid a good few pounds to be able to sneak off alone with Jeeves under the cover of some perfectly respectable newspaper article. In fact, the Wooster person was rather keen to move straight onto that particular aspect of proceedings, and I wondered how quickly I might be able to get myself and Jeeves away from the party.

I didn’t have to wait long for them to reappear, however. Indeed, upon reflection, the time Miss Glossop and my valet were absent was almost suspiciously _short_. I could also tell from the expression on Honoria’s map as she blazed back into the ballroom that something was distinctly amiss. It might have been her eyes setting fire to everything they touched that tipped me off - like a magnifying glass left in a beam of bright sunlight – or possibly the way her mouth was set into a line so hard and thin one could have used it as a letter opener. 

At any rate, I know that look. I have seen it countless times upon my Aunt Agatha and I know full well that it is to be avoided at all costs. I therefore made a good attempt to ankle out into the conservatory – whatever the matter was, I wanted none of it.

“BERTRAM WOOSTER!” Honoria roared at my retreating back. Everyone stopped their dancing and conversation, and the gramophone was hastily silenced, badly scratching a copy of ‘Forty-Seven Ginger-headed Sailors’ in the process. All of the assembled company stared alternately between Honoria, who was veritably foaming at the mouth, and me, looking sheepish and utterly confused. The air betwixt us fizzed ominously as if affected by one of those dashed clever metal-ball thingies named after a German chap with a name like a bar-chart. Van der something-or-other.

I was completely at a loss regarding the current shriek-worthy posish, so couldn’t really say anything other than acknowledge my name. “Um, yes, Honoria?”

“Oh, don’t you, 'yes-Honoria,' me, Bertram! After what I have just seen in your bedroom so can quite happily wipe every trace of deceitful innocence from that face of yours. I have never seen evidence of such unacceptable behaviour in all my life.”

“Now hang on a minute!” I said. Nothing in my bedroom was _that_ bad. Admittedly, my choice of cravats might not exactly be conservative, and Jeeves may not be alone in his dislike of monogrammed handkerchiefs, but I certainly didn’t own a single garment that deserved _such_ a flaming reaction were an unsuspecting female to chance upon it in my closet. Not even the American hat. “Calm down, Honoria, old thing.” I tried to placate, “Those colourful odds and ends are just a bit of fun. Not everyone favours the white, virginal model, you know.”

Much to my dismay, my careful, calm reasoning on the subject of bow-ties sent Honoria to an even higher fit of pique. “My goodness, such dreadful impropriety. I hereby declare our engagement is at an end, Bertram. I can only count my lucky stars to have learned of your true nature before it was too late. By this, I am thoroughly disgusted!” She then produced a book that was bound in brown paper with some filigree writing on the front and brandished it above her head for all to see. 

Squinting at the thing, it seemed disconcertingly familiar. Indeed, that particular object brought back a whole flood of disturbing memories... oven-proof rum... a whole crowd of chaps... panic, escape and elation... _Oh my God_. Indeed, if you haven't guessed by now, the volume to which Honoria alluded was none other than the singularly alarming collection of French postcards, property of Mr. Bingo Senior; the volume that had prompted such a strong negative reaction, followed by such a positive realization in yours truly a few days before. My feelings toward that book were the purest repulsion and most sincere gratitude in roughly equal measure, but I certainly didn't want to be confronted with the thing in public and accused of being responsible for it.

When the penny had clearly dropped on my part, Honoria decided she was at liberty to continue. She sniffed haughtily then said, “I would be well within my rights to report such obscene material to the police, Bertram Wooster.”

“Oh, come on, Honoria, old thing,” I protested, “They're not even mine!”

That clearly wasn't the right thing to have said, because she bristled even more and even seemed to snarl a little. “Don't you even try that with me, Bertram. These postcards were clearly positioned in your bedside cabinet with all of your other papers. And on top, I might add!” 

At that point an aghast intake of breath came from some of the other females present, making me feel even more uncomfortable, if that were possible. Honoria might have noticed my no-doubt stricken expression, for she softened then, just a little. “I shan't hesitate to tell your Aunt Agatha about this, Bertram. I'm sure Mrs. Gregson would be _most_ interested to know what type of printed material her nephew peruses. However, I may take pity on you and refrain from calling the police. That is however, only on the condition that you leave here immediately – on the milk train – such that I might recover more easily from the shock.”

I thought that was a bit rich, really. The idea of Honoria being in shock over something like that was rather akin to suggesting a water buffalo should not venture out in a light breeze lest he get blown clean away. Nevertheless, I jumped at my chance to avoid another run-in with the bluebottles. We Woosters know when it is prudent to take the emergency exit in a jamb, you know. Valour, we have, but stupidity, we have not. Not usually, anyway.

“Right-ho, I'll just be off then,” I said, trying to keep a stiff-upper lip and all that. “Toodle-pip everyone.” Most of the chaps gave me a most hearty farewell then, no doubt thinking that I was graciously taking one for the team, as it were. All except Bingo, that is, who had stopped stock still, was glowing beetroot red, and every few seconds was glancing nervously at Josephine as if she might discover the true owner of those dratted postcards by witchcraft or sheer force of personality. 

I did recognize however, that there might be an up-side to the whole bally unfair fix. “Jeeves, I think we'll be leaving now,” I directed toward my toothsome valet, who had maintained a characteristically unruffled visage throughout the whole mess. Was nothing able to perturb that man?

Such hopes were quickly dashed however, no doubt just as an extra punishment. “Jeeves will not accompany you at this time,” decreed Honoria, “He will be needed here to finalize the get-out from the theatre. In fact, I think it would be sensible to commence work there straight away. Mr. Wooster will not require help, Jeeves, as he will be leaving immediately. You can take his luggage home tomorrow.”

Jeeves answered Honoria stiffly. “Very good, Madam.”

Another uncomfortable silence reigned just then - until Josephine punctured it. “Well, you heard Honoria,” she snapped at me, “Go away before she sees fit to call the police.” 

Several of the girls nodded prudishly, and I then had no option but to run the gauntlet of tutting females out of the ballroom, speed through the hotel lobby and trudge up the hill toward Spindleythorpe’s small station to wait for the first train to London.


	7. Consolidation and Consummation

I got back to the metrop just after dawn. It was dashed odd to see those watery strains of light peeking over the horizon when I was stone-cold sober, actually. Such things should only be viewed by a chap when he is thoroughly begoggled by a few too many, and preferably in possession of a policeman's helmet. It just isn't natural, otherwise.

I put myself to bed, but only slept a little. I was too full of nervous energy – like a young boy waiting for Father Christmas – so didn't manage to catch more than about fifteen of the prescribed forty winks before getting up again and pacing around in a bit of a state. When I rose from my tossing and turning I noticed that a telegram had appeared on the doormat. To my delight it was from Jeeves, informing me that he expected to be back at the ranch by late afternoon. I wondered what time that was, exactly. Four? Five maybe? It had to be before six, because six was cocktail hour, and Jeeves would never muddle the proper times for extracts of leaf and berry.

At any rate, I had several hours to rattle around, utterly impatient about Jeeves' return. I felt a bizarre mixture of excitement and trepidation, and it was dashed difficult to make sense of it all. I was both full of fanciful thoughts about what said reunion might involve and also generally fretful about what he would make of the whole postcards affair - and indeed, the new circs. between the two of us. Said c's had cropped up so suddenly, and then been trampled on by other things with equivalent speed, I didn't quite know what to make of them myself. 

On the one hand, I knew that I was still utterly in love with Jeeves, and kissing him the day before had to be the most topping thing I had ever, ever experienced. On the other hand, I was pretty uncertain about what he thought - post-postcards, as it were. The chap was pretty inscrutable at the best of times, and in a jamb like this I had not the smallest corner of a map to guide me while being all at sea upon the question of what should happen next. I could have been setting a course for the Bermuda Triangle, for all I knew. It was dashed awkward that I didn't know much about these _affaires de coeur_.

With all this going on in the Wooster brain at once, I thought I might go off my trolley if I just rattled about the flat, so I ankled into town for a while. I did some window-shopping but was careful not to buy anything to wear – the last thing I needed just then was to upset Jeeves with an ill-advised hat. After a while I nipped into the club for a bite to eat and a swift lunchtime snifter. The place was very quiet as most of the Drones were still in Spindleythorpe, dash it, but that did at least give me some time to ponder my posish and try to put the bean to work on a possible next step. 

What did I _want_ to happen next, exactly? Where should the whole story go after that kissing-in-the-dressing-room anemone? No, I don't mean anemone, do I... that's a kind of frilly sea-creature, whereas I mean one of those out-of-the-ordinary happenstances.

Well, I gazed into my brandy glass, and the answer suddenly seemed to come to me. The preferred Wooster path was clearly marked. It presented quite a change from the past set-up, admittedly, and I'd probably have to break the thing to Jeeves with a bit of force behind it, if there were to be any chance he would agree. Nevertheless, I figured that one anemone deserves a whole carpet of sea-urchins, as it were, and with that metaphor in mind I went back into town to call in briefly at the valet agency's office, and make a small purchase that I hoped would act to clarify my point later that day.

Anomaly! That's the one. Not my purchase, you understand; that word I was looking for a moment ago about happen-thingies. I'm glad to have that cleared up, but I'm not entirely sure where the sea-urchins fit in now. Oh, well...

Anyway, I took myself back to the flat and was chagrined to realise that it was still sans-valet. I sat stiffly on the sofa in the lounge with a decent mystery novel, and made a valiant attempt to pass the time without looking at the front door every other paragraph. On some pages, I even succeeded.

After what seemed like an utter eternity, I heard a key in the lock and was immediately all a-flutter, the book falling forgotten to the floor. Jeeves floated in - even though he was laden with luggage - and dispensed a polite good-afternoon-sir before heading straight off to unpack and undertake whatever other myriad duties he imagined must have been neglected in his absence. 

Now, I wouldn't usually interrupt the worthy chap when he was getting on with things. I was certain that he would be back to ask me whether there was anything I wanted as quickly as a well-oiled Bugatti, but I was boiling-over with the urgency of saying all that was persecuting the Wooster brain. Therefore I sprang to my toes and called, “Jeeves, could you come here a moment?” in a voice that sounded stretched and unpleasantly squeaky even to my own ears. 

_This is it_ I told myself – my one and only chance to put things on track. I don't have a great record in the pivotal moment department, truth be told – something always seems to go awry - so I was understandably feeling pretty nervous. Unfortunately, as a result of said apprehensy-thingummy I was probably giving off a rather rummy air, which might have been open to misinterpretation. When Jeeves appeared in the lounge of the flat, I was pacing up and down like billy-oh, and barely dared to look him in the eye.

“You wanted to speak to me, sir?” Jeeves said, gliding into the room.

“Yes. I have been thinking, Jeeves, and as a result of yesterday's, err... occurrences... I'm afraid to say some things are going to have to change around here.”

Jeeves suddenly went very stiff, and there was a flicker of something across his face that could almost have thought to have been fear. “Sir?”

“Well, yes,” I continued, steeling myself. “I'm afraid, Jeeves, that you shan't call me 'sir' any more.” I was quite firm then. I didn't want a scene. “And I'd really rather you went to your room and packed up all your things.”

There then followed a very long and heavy silence. I had stopped moving by then, and could hear my own blood thumping through my veins. I saw Jeeves swallow hard, and take a deep, steadying breath. Anything else he might have thought or felt was expertly veiled behind that dashed professional mask of his, but his face was cold and white, and as still as I have ever seen it.

Finally, Jeeves began to speak. His tone was light and brittle, but completely impassive. “I fully understand you decision, sir, and I apologise for my part in the regrettable circumstances for which you deem it appropriate for me to leave your service. I should not have been so presumptuous as to think that a gentleman such as yourself would have considered such a liaison well-advised following a short period of reflection.” He paused, and swallowed hard once again. “I will depart immediately, and shall never again inconvenience you with my presence.” Another uncomfortable silence, in which Jeeves seemed to be preparing himself for some practicality or other. “Would it be impertinent of me to ask, sir, if you would be willing to write a reference for me, adequate to obtain future employment?”

I was utterly speechless, and doubtless looked rather like a stunned goldfish. “Reference? Of course not! I have no intention of writing you a reference, Jeeves!”

A grim expression played across those handsome features for a fraction of a second. “Of course. Very good, sir. Excuse me, sir.” Without further prelude, he turned sharply on his heel in the direction of his lair, and I was struck with the overwhelming feeling that every chance of happiness I might have in my life was about to walk out of the room and never return. 

Worse still, I had absolutely no idea why.

Without thinking, I launched myself toward the door to stop him. I was partially successful in so doing, in that I blocked Jeeves' exit. However, I also managed to miss him entirely, and impacted the Wooster noddle rather harshly upon the wooden door-frame. The room began to lurch to and fro like a Viking battleship in severe weather, and I was aware of slithering downwards to the carpet; a concussed, sprawling puddle of Bertram looking entreatingly up at Jeeves for some explanation and succour.

Jeeves seemed somewhat taken aback, but uncharacteristically he did not spring into any course of action, merely looking down on me with a slightly creased brow. It was at that moment, from my worm-perspective viewpoint, that I felt sure I had lost him forever. 

There was nothing left to B. Wooster then, but disorientation and despair. I sank my swimming head into my hands and wanted the ground to swallow me whole. More to myself - or to cruel fate - than to him, I cried, “Don't leave me, Jeeves. Please don't leave me. I don't want to live without you.” I must have looked a most sorry sight indeed.

There was once again an enormous, agonizing silence. Finally, in a voice that seemed to crack under its own pressure, Jeeves offered one tiny, sympathetic syllable. “Sir?”

“Dash it, Jeeves,” I murmured, “I said, 'please don't leave me'. I need you here. I... I... love you, Jeeves.”

That was it, I thought. All over. I had said the fatal words that might have seemed like a good idea the previous day - perhaps even the previous hour - before everything had silently and horrifically changed. My one true love was about to disappear forever, and I would never know the cause.

I watched from the corner of my eye, not breathing, merely waiting for him to biff off that final, fateful time. Seconds passed – it might have been minutes for all I know – but I gradually became aware that Jeeves hadn't actually left.

Instead, I saw that he was moving closer to me; crouching down to the level of my dishevelled heap on the floor. Mustering the final shred of my courage, I looked up to meet his gaze. 

I had never seen a more beautiful sight than the expression that was painted upon Jeeves' noble features at that moment. His customary reserve was gone, and there was a perfect picture of emotion; of tenderness. It was clearly there, for all the world to read, but there was no-one present save I, Bertram. 

Something also seemed a bit out of place. It took me a moment to put my finger on it, but I then realised that Jeeves seemed to leaking slightly. Leaking at the eyes. This struck me as so unusual that it took a moment for me to realise that the honourable fellow was _shedding a tear._

“Forgive me, sir. I thought that you wanted me to leave,” he said, simply. 

I could not speak, but shook my head far more vigorously than was sensible given it's concussed state. I moved toward Jeeves and he embraced me; I embraced him. I buried my face under his chin and merely held on for dear life as slowly, very slowly, the blood started to flow once more around my frame. 

As I anchored myself safely there with the chap I love, my brain once again started to function. I began to understand what the problem had been – how I had such a marvellous talent for saying everything in the wrong way. I was suddenly all of a fluster and couldn't possibly explain myself quickly enough, so all of my thoughts tumbled out on top of each other in a big messy heap. “Leave? I'd never, ever, want you to... I mean to say, only if you wanted... but then it would be terrible, and I want for us to be... but I didn't want to rush you, so I was nervous, and it all came out wrong...”

“Shhhhh,” said Jeeves, holding me carefully in his arms. “Please be calm now, sir. Everything is all right.”

“Is it?” I just had to check.

“Yes, sir, it is. Now let me help you up, and I can tend to your injury.”

“So, you're not leaving me, Jeeves?”

“No sir, I do not wish to leave you.”

The relief I felt at that moment was almost enough to make me faint altogether; I'm sure I had only been kept conscious before by all the adreny-thingummy that was coursing through the Wooster bloodstream. Luckily, Jeeves is a very strong and powerful chap, for he managed to all but hoist me into an upright position, across the room and lay me on the sofa. He then went into the kitchen to fetch some ice from the ice-box and wrapped it in towels to make a cold-compress, which he applied to my impacted forehead with all the care and attention of Florence Nighting-birdy herself.

Quite a shiner appeared on the Wooster brow over the next few minutes, but as Jeeves reported appearance of honourable bruising, my thoughts seemed to straighten themselves out – almost as if all the confusion had to work its way to the outside and turn purple before my brain could get a clear run at things.

When I thought I was ready, I took a deep breath and said, “Okay, Jeeves, I think I've got it sorted out now, and I'll try not to cock it up this time.”

He smiled at me benevolently. “Very good, sir.”

“Right. Well the thing is, what I was trying to say, I mean, is that I really do love you, you know. An awful lot. I'm ever so glad about what happened yesterday, and I'd like a repeat performance on the hour, every hour, if I had my way. But that's not all. I was trying to tell you that I'd like for us to be together properly; officially; or at least as officially as two chaps can be. I don't want for us to ever be parted. Do you, err, see what I mean?”

“Yes sir, I do,” Jeeves replied, and he gazed affirmatively down from where he was seated next to me on the sofa.

“So, I guess the next thing, now I've laid the state-of-the-Wooster on the line, as it were, is to wonder whether you, perhaps, one day – no pressure about now, you understand – might be persuadable to feel the same way about this silly old bean?” I chewed my bottom lip nervously, but it was difficult to feel properly fractious when laying there leaning against Jeeves, him stroking small circles on the unharmed side on my forehead.

“The answer to your question, sir, is yes. I love you very much.” It was a simple, almost bald statement, but was the finest music imaginable to the Wooster ears. I turned around where I lay and hugged Jeeves with all my might, delighting in the solid warmth of his embrace and nestling my head just under his chin. Jeeves wrapped his arms around me and let out a tremendous breath that I wager he didn't realise he had been holding. 

We stayed like that for some time, even as Jeeves began to speak again, and I could feel the vibrations of his rich, velvety voice through his chest. “In fact, sir, I have loved you ardently for a very long time. You might not have realised this, sir, but the unrequited sentiments I felt toward you recently reached such a pique, that I somewhat recklessly took matters into my own hands. It seems only fair that I explain my part in the recent extraordinary events. I hope you will not be too angry with me.”

What-ho, I didn't expect that. On the other hand, Jeeves was probably pretty safe from the wrath of Bertram, all things considered, and I sat up a little to hear whatever news he was going to tell me. “I don't think I could muster the gumption to be angry with you right now, Jeeves old thing. So I suppose you should probably just steam ahead and tell me.”

“Very good, sir.” He seemed slightly amused at that, come to think of it. “To begin, I must confess to not being entirely honest with you regarding my faith in a common commercial fortune-telling outfit to dispense accurate predictions regarding one's romantic future. It is fair to say that I do not, in fact, hold the pronouncements of these seafront pedlars in such esteem as I led you to believe to be the case.”

“Mmmm, well, fair enough if you were exaggerating at the time, Jeeves, but surely you've got to admit now that Madam Osiris was right on the button when it comes to our new-found rather jammy posish.” I gestured at the particularly small space between us and Jeeves inclined his head in assent. “I was told that the love of my life was going to be someone tall, dark-haired and very capable, whom I have known for some time, and by Jove, I rather think I have found him!” I laid my hand on Jeeves' chest, just to make the point.

“This is all certainly true, sir,” replied Jeeves, “Although the veracity of what you say holds more by design than by coincidence. I was inspired by your splendid suggestion to perturb Mr. Little regarding the potential of his acquaintance with Miss Houghton-Wright.”

“You mean Bingo and Josephine? How I said that we could wipe the smirk from his dial by bribing the fortune teller?”

“Precisely, sir.” Jeeves looked rather smug, and not at all apologetic, come to think of it; not that I particularly minded.

“So when I saw Madam Osiris, she was under orders from you to dispense a few tantalising clues about... us?”

“You have the gist of the situation, sir, but not the particulars. I did not trust another to discharge such a delicate duty and thought it would be prudent for me to retain full control over what was said. Did not the good lady look in some way familiar to you, sir?”

Jeeves watched me patiently, waiting for the gears and cogs of the Wooster brain to turn until the extrapolation was complete. Madam Osiris had been tall and imposing, with dark, clever eyes, an elegant nose, wide masculine shoulders and capable, firm hands...

“I say! I say, Jeeves,” I said, “You mean to tell me that she was... you?”

“Precisely, sir,” my delightful valet replied. “The good lady was willing to lend me her pavilion and costume for half-an-hour following a most kind introduction by Mr. Little Senior's manservant, a certain nautical gentleman who works on occasion at the fortune-teller's ticket booth, by the name of Mr. Collingsby. All that remained then was for me to suggest the idea of an interview with the eternal spirits to Mr. Little and Miss Bassett on Monday lunchtime. As you had predicted, sir, they took to the idea most enthusiastically, and also of course encouraged your good self to attend the reading. A little devious on my part, but I am sure you understand that any direct method of ascertaining whether my regard for you might be returned was out of the question, sir. I hope you will agree that the end justifies the means.” Jeeves quirked an eyebrow upwards in question as he finished his explanation.

“By Jove, Jeeves. Very clever, very clever indeed! A bit rummy to lead a chap up the garden path like that, I will say, but under the circs. I can't say I'm cross.” I beamed at him and then cast my mind over some of the other unusual events of the past few days. “But what about everything else that has happened of late – the whole theatrical business and then yours truly having a pretty close-run thing with not one, but _two_ different engagements? Surely you couldn't have planned all that too, Jeeves? - Or is your method of wooing so complex that even the subject cannot truly appreciate the full-blown mechanism of the thing?”

Jeeves preened a little at that, and I was happy to let him do so before he answered. “As I said to you at the beginning of this week, sir, my feelings about 'The Mikado,' were that you would perform the role of Nanki-Poo admirably. Indeed, I would venture to say that I was proven correct in this assertion, and I am not alone in having enjoyed your rendition of the character very much. However, in addition to such straightforward encouragement, sir, it had also occurred to me that the likelihood of any extraordinary revelations taking place on your part would be enhanced by an unusual regimen and set of circumstances. As I am sure you can attest, sir, participation in a theatrical production certainly does alter one's routine and circadian conventions in a way that might well be conducive to original thought.” 

I certainly couldn't argue with him on that point, so I nodded in agreement as Jeeves drew breath to continue. “To address your second line of enquiry, sir, the various ways in which Miss Bassett misinterpreted the fortune I read for you were most definitely not part of my plan. However, having instigated such difficulties myself, I felt duty-bound – and not a little personally interested, I might add - to set them straight. I was aware that Miss Bassett would most probably relinquish her matrimonial claims toward you if Mr. Fink-Nottle were to indeed perform with her in the operetta, and I therefore suggested to him the scheme whereby he could perform Ko-Ko's spoken lines on stage, and I would sing for him from the wings. The idea seemed to work satisfactorily, and I am pleased to confirm that Miss Bassett and Mr. Fink-Nottle remained happily engaged at the point at which I left Spindleythorpe this afternoon.”

“Jolly good, Jeeves,” I said, rather in awe, “And I'm once more out of the Bassett clutches.” I shuddered slightly at the thought of having to spend an eternity with someone who thought that grass was made green to match the colour of bunnies' eyes, but then realised that the story was only half-told. “And what about Honoria, then?”

“I was somewhat perturbed to discover that Miss Glossop had been supposed to fit Madam Osiris' rather carefully – and dare I say, subtly – laid description of your intended, sir, and therefore it was necessary to dissuade the good lady from following through with her intentions. The rather disturbing printed material that came into Mr. Little's possession,” - Jeeves paused as a delicate cringe passed across his dignified dial - “provided an ideal way to convince Miss Glossop that you were not in fact the gentleman she would find most suitable for a lifelong relationship, upon her discovery of it in your bedside cabinet when searching for the newspaper review. Of course it was necessary for me to have already removed Miss Glossop’s own copy of the Spindleythorpe Sentinel from the theatre such that she would seek to peruse yours.”

“Well, I'll be blowed, Jeeves!” I exclaimed, realising that far from being upset about the young Master apparently being in possession of those dratted postcards, Jeeves had planted them there himself! Dashed clever. A little damaging to the Wooster reputation among the fillies I'd admit, but all the chaps knew about the things anyway, so there was no real harm done. However, as I mused on this turn of events, another question pressed itself into my whirling brain. “This is all very well – and I don't for a moment castigate you for saving me in the way that you did, Jeeves – but how on earth did you know about those postcards of Bingo's anyway? I thought they'd been kept all hush-hush.”

“From your own lips, sir,” my valet replied. “You arrived back at the hotel on Tuesday evening in a most talkative state - until you fell suddenly asleep of course. You informed me of the existence and nature of the postcards with most _affecting_ particulars, if I may say so, sir...”

“Ooh, I'm sorry about that, Jeeves. Far more than right-thinking chaps like us would want to be bombarded with at that time of night,”

“Quite so, sir.” We both shuddered at that point. “As I was saying, sir, I learned all about the postcards on Tuesday evening, and from there it was a simple matter to procure them with the aid of Mr. Collingsby, and secrete them in your room for discovery by Miss Glossop. As an additional motive - in light of the somewhat _unusual_ occurrence between yourself and myself yesterday afternoon, sir - I took the liberty to surmise that it might be prudent to underline your apparent regard for the female of the species in public at this stage. ”

“My goodness, Jeeves,” I said, “Quite a scheme. And always thinking ahead like that - Jolly clever! It caused me some distress, I'm not afraid to admit, but as the saying goes, you need to break eggs to make, err... fried eggs, now, don't you?”

“Exactly so, sir, although an omelette usually features in that particular epithet.”

“Yes, one of those too,” I agreed rather sagely. I reflected for a moment upon the brilliance of Jeeves' brain, but then another unpleasant thought about the whole postcard affair resurfaced in my mind. “Oh no, I've just remembered something else rummy about Honoria and those ghastly postcards, Jeeves.” 

“Sir?”

“I'm sure that the dratted beazel will by now have held true to her promise to tell my Aunt Agatha all about the pictorial depravity of her nephew. I'm due to be hunted down by the Scourge of the Woosters at any moment!” Panic was clearly making itself known across my brow, and I glanced shiftily at the door of the flat as if the dreaded relation might appear there at any second.

“One might have thought so, sir, but luckily for us, that will not be the case.” Jeeves took a relaxed breath in his story then, I imagine to enjoy keeping me on tenterhooks. “It seems that when she confiscated Mr. Little's photographic material, Miss Glossop was sufficiently curious to peruse the pictures herself before disposing of them. Last evening, these images had a peculiar and profound effect upon Miss Glossop, who realised that far from being repulsed – as you, most thankfully found yourself to be, sir – she was rather attracted, in a distinctly Sapphic sense. Miss Glossop called at the hotel room this morning to inform me that she will not be taking any action against you with regard to Mrs. Gregson, on the condition that she may borrow your bow-tie, tailcoat and top hat. I believe that Miss Glossop and Miss Houghton-Wright are due to enjoy a sojourn in Lesbos this very evening, with the aid of said articles.”

I boggled at that, all right. “By golly, Jeeves. You mean to say that Honoria is... well, she's like us, now, but with girls, not chaps?”

“That would certainly seem to be the case, sir.”

“By Jove! Well, you know what, Jeeves?” I said, my mood much lightened by this news, “I think I like old Honoria a whole lot more already. Perhaps we should invite her and Josephine around for dinner at the flat, sometime?”

“That certainly might prove to be a diverting evening, sir,” my valet replied, his tone an encyclopaedia of suggestion.

I suddenly felt lightened of every burden in the world – rather the exact opposite of that tall Greek chappie who was named after a book of maps – and impulsively dived towards Jeeves for another hug, my headache quite forgotten. “You really are a marvel; you know that, Jeeves?”

“Why thank you sir,” he said, “I am pleased that the outcome of recent events meets with your approval.”

Having that all cleared up reminded me that there were one or two things that I still wanted to give a good airing, following on from the simply lovely things that had happened the day before in the dressing room of the theatre. I took my legs down from the furniture, and turned around so that I was facing Jeeves properly as he sat there on the far end of the sofa, still perfectly upright despite repeated hugging. 

Trying to ignore the nervousness as it resurfaced, I took a deep breath and launched in. “As we were talking about what we might do around the flat, that rather brings me back to what I was trying to say earlier – when I got ahead of myself and nearly made such a dreadful hash of things. What I had in mind Jeeves - given that I'm so utterly head-over-heels in love with you – was that I'd rather like to take you on as a spouse properly – you know, on equal terms. So what I was trying to say was, you don't have to fetch and carry for me all the time any more, and we can sort of biff around together... if you'd like to, of course, I mean.” 

I steeled myself at that point - as I was half-way through - and resolved to plough on. In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that. “I was also thinking that it might be really spiffing if you'd like to move into the master bedroom with me – it can get pretty lonely in there, after all – and you can bring along all your bits and bobs and books and suchlike and arrange them however you like in the flat instead of being cooped up in just the one room.” 

It wasn’t a conventional kind of proposal, I suppose – severely lacking in the diamond ring and bended knee department, for example. Jeeves had been deathly quiet and still again during my little speech, highlighting the way my heart was thumping as if it saw fit to break free of my ribcage. I looked up into Jeeves' dark eyes, which had been regarding me quizzically throughout, and wondered exactly what he was thinking. “Does that sound, err, at all... appealing, old thing?” I asked.

A lengthy pause preceded his reply, but then he said, “I am very touched by your suggestion, sir, and as regards the spirit of the arrangement, I would like to wholeheartedly accept.” Jeeves swallowed hard then and looked down at his hands, which I noticed were uncharacteristically wringing together in his lap. “Excuse me, sir, I feel a little overcome,” he uttered.

I worried then that I might have said something wrong again without knowing it. There was another pause, in which Jeeves took a deep breath and seemed to compose himself, then he continued. “In all but my very youngest years, I had not imagined that I would ever find love, sir. I do not have an... outgoing... personality naturally, and that fact coupled with my natural persuasion made me decide that a few closeted trysts and a grim marriage of convenience might be the very best I could hope for. The idea that I might now have found love is almost inconceivable to me, no matter how many times I have lain awake at night dreaming of this very thing between us. I would have gladly accepted an understanding with you on any terms whatsoever, but to learn that you are willing to be so kind and generous with me; to overlook the differences between us even though our love can never be officially recognised? That is beyond my wildest dreams.” 

Jeeves seemed to have finished, but then I noticed that he was probably considering something of a practical nature - I recognised the expression on his face then as the one he uses for writing a laundry list or measuring out the ingredients of a cocktail. “There are one or two modifications that I would like to suggest regarding your most kind offer, sir, if I may?”

“Suggest away, Jeeves,” I said.

“It would be delightful to unpack my books more thoroughly, if that would be acceptable, sir, but I think it would be unwise to leave the valet's quarters completely bereft. We would not benefit from arousing suspicion regarding our new arrangement; you know as well as I that relations between the two of us must remain a complete secret. To lose you to the hands of the law would be... unthinkable.”

“Quite right, Jeeves. A good point, well made.” I did not want to dwell upon the unpleasantness that could befall us if we were to be discovered by an antagonistic party, but we both knew it, all the same.

“And in a similar vein, sir, with your permission, I would like to carry on keeping this flat and our general existence in good order. For us both – if I may be so bold. The alternative would either be for things to become most disorganised and messy, which we would not find at all conducive,” Jeeves suppressed a delicate shudder at that point, “Or to employ another valet, who would certainly impede our privacy.”

I considered that for a second; he did rather have another good point. “Very well then, Jeeves,” I said, “The place is yours to do with as you wish. As am I, you understand.”

He gave me that delightful half-smile. “Thank you, sir. In more ways than one.”

A lovely warm feeling spread over me at that point, which I'm pretty sure had nothing to do with the concussion. My recovering brain cells then remembered something. “Ooh! And while I think of it, I bought you a little something this morning to make the point. There's a package on the dining table for you, if you'd care to investigate.”

“Sir?” said Jeeves in surprise, but he did just as I suggested, retrieving the small parcel and returning to sit next to me on the sofa.

“Go on, open it!” I urged. Jeeves eyed the little bundle cautiously, but proceeded to untie the string in that meticulous way that he does everything – just when most other people would have ripped right through the paper. 

When he reached the centre, an expression of polite bemusement crossed those noble features. Jeeves picked up the gift between finger and thumb and turned it in the air to get a proper view from all angles. “A rubber duck, sir?”

I grinned then, being rather taken with the idea even though I do say so myself. “Yes, I had him specially customised for you in the shop. See here - his little beak points upwards and he's wearing a dinky little collar and tie. I thought he could sit in the bathroom and keep my ducky company when we're not at home. Kind of hand-in-hand…or wing-in-wing, as it were.”

Jeeves nodded sagely, taking all of this in. Finally he seemed to decide that he was rather taken by the idea too, and honoured me with a rare unguarded smile. “Thank you, sir. He is... delightful.”

“Good, I'm glad you like him - it would be awful to have an orphan Jeeves-ducky on my hands! I'm pleased that everything else is settled too,” I added, gesturing vaguely around to encompass our living space. 

It then occurred to me that there was something else that I wanted to try out on Jeeves while we were at the chin-wagging stage of things. I hoped I wouldn't be pushing my luck by introducing all of my ideas in one go, but I'm not the sort of chap who is good at storing things up and waiting ages for the perfect moment – I'd rather give it all a good airing as it comes. “There's just one more item on the old mental check-list, if you wouldn't mind hearing about it, Jeeves?” He nodded agreement. “In the spirit of all the aforementioned togetherness and cosiness and all that, I think it would be jolly nice if you didn't call me 'sir' any more. I should be 'Bertie' to you now, or whatever other moniker you'd like to affix to a chap, I suppose.”

Jeeves looked considering once more. Was I asking too much of him to drop the old feudal spirit, even in these circs? There was a bit of a weighty pause again, but he answered, “I would be delighted to, si-.” I caught the edge of a sardonic smile then, followed by a deep breath as he tried again. “I would be delighted to, Bertram.”

I beamed so widely at that moment, my dial might have split across its equator. Jeeves seemed pretty cheerful too, and carried on to say, “If I could crave a boon, however, my dear Bertram? I'd really rather you carried on calling me 'Jeeves'. The name has many pleasant associations when said in your voice, and I honestly couldn't get used to being called 'Reggie,' as I'm sure you would want to contract my birth-name if you were to employ it.”

I chuckled at that, but conceded, “Very well then, 'Jeeves' it is! Although now you've given me the idea, I may well call you 'Reggie' at times you know – it does sound rather 'cute,' as the Americans would put it.”

I thought I might have done something wrong again at that point, because Jeeves gave me a very stern look and raised both eyebrows in my direction. However, he then dived for the recumbent Wooster midriff and began tickling mercilessly. 

I gulped in surprise at first, but quickly began squirming and thrashing around pretty uncontrollably. It is a classified secret that B. Wooster is in fact, extremely ticklish – I didn't know how Jeeves had got hold of this fact, but it was decidedly un-cricket if you ask me, to make use of it so effectively...

“Aaiiieee! Oooh, Aaaahhh!” I cried, gasping for breath and wondering how Jeeves had suddenly grown five extra hands. Finally, he had mercy and slowed the onslaught of fingers, although he did not remove his hands altogether, letting then rest gently on my now-exposed torso in a more steady manner. 

“Okay, I understand, Jeeves,” I gasped, “I shall only call you 'Reggie' at extreme peril to self.” A curt and satisfied nod on his part answered that statement - belying the fact that his fingers casually stroked the part of my stomach on which they lay, sending pleasant tingles from that point outwards all over my body.

“I am pleased to hear that, Bertram,” Jeeves said somewhat smugly. His face then formed into an expression of sartorial concern, “I am however somewhat distressed to see what has become of your clothes. It would not do for them to remain in such a rumpled state, so perhaps we should adjourn to your chamber such that they can be properly removed and folded.” 

Industrious as this may have seemed on the part of my valet, I had a rather strong suspicion that garment care was only second on the list of Jeeves' priorities. A glance at his' expression then – which I can only describe in honesty as _salacious_ \- certainly confirmed those thoughts. “Sally forth, then Jeeves!” I agreed, “And let's make sure we're not interrupted this time, eh?”

“I have already seen to it,” he answered, and we both rose and hastily crossed into the master bedroom, closing the door behind us.

A few seconds passed then, as Jeeves and I stood an arm's length apart, merely regarding each other – him pristine as always, me thoroughly tousled – the attraction and longing barely veiled in our eyes. By some silent consensus, we moved forward at the same time and met in a fiercely burning kiss; lips and tongues and wandering hands affirming all the things that we had just said - he in his eloquence and me in my waffle, but none the less sincere because of it.

I felt Jeeves' tall, strong frame pressing against my own; his broad chest and enveloping embrace, and delighted in the scent of him – of sparkling soap and shampoo, and beneath that something dark and musky. I was then seized by an overwhelming desire to see Jeeves as Mother Nature intended, so broke away in short order and begun to tear at his perfectly starched clothes – pretty ineffectually, I must admit, as there were so many dratted clasps and buttons, but my intent couldn't have been clearer.

Jeeves must have been amused at my sudden urgency, as he let out a low chuckle – a lovely rich and earthy sound that I decided I wanted to hear a lot more of in the future. He then took pity on my fumbling fingers and assisted the process, divesting us both of our upper garments in no time at all.

I was just about to admire the view of my half-naked valet, but Jeeves as always was quicker off the mark, scooting around to stand right behind me. I was just about to protest when any words that might have formed died in my throat, giving way to an incredible moan as Jeeves applied his talented lips to the side of my neck, kissing and sucking all the way from earlobe to collarbone.

“Ahhhh... Jeeves!” I gasped raggedly, both leaning my head to afford him better access, and wondering how it was possible for such a thing to feel quite so amazingly spiffing. My question was multiplied, not answered however, as Jeeves then reached around to the Wooster front and ghosted those marvellous, capable hands up and down my chest and belly. 

His touch was tantalisingly light, making me break out in goosepimples all over that had absolutely nothing to do with being cold. I shuddered as he caressed me, that talented mouth conspiring with those skilled hands to a wring a whole symphony of gasps and moans from yours truly. Jeeves possibly noticed that the aforementioned g.s and m.s reached their utmost when he contacted my nipples – I was thoroughly surprised by the way that ripples of pleasure were sent all though my body when he touched me there, and dearly wanted him to do more of the same. 

Without having to ask (or bid via a fairy godmother) my wish was granted. Jeeves turned me around in his arms, and then applied those truly amazing lips of his to the areas in question, kissing one while he tweaked the other between finger and thumb. This last move made the business of standing up pretty difficult, to tell the truth. I was feeling decidedly weak at the knees, and held on tightly to Jeeves' shoulders in a desperate bid for verticality as waves of pleasure coursed through the Wooster frame. 

My handsome valet must have guessed what was going on in the lower-limb department, as without ceasing his delightful ministrations he guided us both toward the bed, then laid me out upon the soft eiderdown, somehow removing my trousers and undergarments in the process. Had my mind been fully present, I might have felt rather shy then - so clearly having erected the flag-pole for the banner of my desires, as it were, when Jeeves was still half dressed and was regarding me spread upon the soft surface.

“So beautiful,” he whispered, and it took me a while to register that as there was nothing else of note in the vicinity, he must have been referring to me. Gosh, that was a turn up for the books! I was more accustomed to the adjectives 'lanky' and 'scrawny,' truth be told, or perhaps 'gamine,' in the case that my tailor was trying to sell me a particularly close-fitting new fashion... But 'beautiful'? I was quite taken aback that Jeeves could really consider me thus, but the expression upon his elegant brow showed no hint of irony.

From my position upon the bed, I was sad to have lost Jeeves' touch, but I also realised that I was about to have the visual treat that I had been waiting for. 

Jeeves stood tall above me, his broad chest and strong shoulders giving an outline that was both strong and elegant, all clad in the softest of pale skin. His body looked delectably firm but not too hard, and I daresay that I found the sight even more appetising than one of Anatole's finest creations. A little line of fine hairs lead down his stomach into his trousers, almost like a treasure trail that I desperately wanted to follow, and I voiced my anxiousness for him to undress at once. Jeeves complied with my suggestion, carefully laying his trousers across a chair to reveal a very fine pair of long legs, and finally – as he discarded his underwear – the _gold at the end of the rainbow,_ as it were, which numbered very many carats indeed!

I tried to sum all of this up in a way that would show my approval of the feast that was Jeeves unclad, but words were proving difficult. “Jeeves, you're... I mean to say you look... Well, just perfect really. Simply perfect.” Not eloquent perhaps, but he seemed to catch my drift and cast his eyes down, almost in shyness at the compliment.

Such mutual appreciation having been voiced, and perhaps any latent insecurities on either of our parts having been properly stymied, Jeeves came to join me on the bed and swooped for another kiss which I returned with gusto. Slowly, we became closer and closer together, a caress here, a grasp there, the kissing becoming ever more fevered as time went on. Jeeves then pulled me right to him; our bodies pressed together all over as I felt the first delicious thrill of skin-on-skin radiating through me from top to toe. “Oh, Jeeves,” I moaned, twining my legs with his to make the contact even more complete, just basking in the intensity of it all. As I shifted then, some very intimate parts of our bodies brushed together and without warning it was all too much. I found myself suddenly shuddering, crying out and leaving us both rather sticky.

“Oh dash it, Jeeves! I'm sorry,” I gasped, feeling pretty abashed. Hopefully he'd understand that I was, after all, a novice at these things.

“Not at all, my dear Bertram,” he replied, “I feel immensely complimented.”

“Ah, well, it was definitely meant that way, if you catch my drift...” I said.

“I do, indeed,” he replied, then pressed a little kiss on my forehead while holding me close. 

The look on Jeeves' face then was so warm, so loving, my embarrassment quickly faded, and my attention was drawn once more to the not-inconsiderable part of Jeeves that was making itself felt against my leg. A moment later, the refractory period for these things seemed almost ludicrously short, and certain ideas of interest popped once more into my mind. “Though a round-two wouldn't be out of the question for the young Wooster, I think...” I ventured. Jeeves undulated his hips against me in answer to that, and that combined with a distinctly predatory glint in Jeeves' eye made my blood begin to stir once more, “Yes, um... quite possibly in the near future, in fact...”

“I am delighted so to hear,” rumbled Jeeves' voice, perilously close to my ear, and with that we set upon one another afresh, the blistering contact of skin-on-skin renewed until after a few minutes I wasn't quite sure which limb belonged to whom, or whether it was actually possible for Jeeves to kiss me in three different places at once.

"Jeeves... oh my God, Jeeves..." I cried, while he was doing seriously devilish things to my neck. I was so lost to the moment, but I also knew that I was becoming perilously _close_ for the second time and didn't want for it to be over so soon, all over again. With every remaining speck of willpower I had, I called for him to stop.

An expression of concern played across my valet's delectable features. "Is something the matter?" he asked earnestly while gently stroking my chest.

"No, Jeeves. Goodness no! It's just that... this is so utterly wonderful, and... well, you know that I don't really know much about this sort of thing. But... I heard – it was from the boys at college, actually - that there's a way for two chaps to be, well you know, _together,_ in the physical sense I mean, and I thought it might be special if... Only if you want to of course..." 

Jeeves stared at me for a moment, with an open, wondrous expression which had it been on my dial not his, would have looked distinctly piscine. "There is nothing that I would like more, my dearest,” he said, and then kissed me gently on the lips to seal his statement.

"Oh, splendid!" I said, wriggling a little because Jeeves seemed to have stopped caressing me in his moment of reflection, and well, I am a bit greedy like that. He quickly got the hint and dived in for another sensational kiss, covering me again with his firm body and once again setting my skin on fire with his touch. After a few moments, Jeeves moved away. I thought he was just readjusting his position, but I was somewhat shocked to realise that he was actually getting up and leaving me.

"Jeeves?" I squeaked, "Don't go..."

He arched an eyebrow in my direction and said, "I shall return presently. I am going to fetch something from my quarters that will assist with your excellent idea." He then strode out of the bedroom, and I couldn't help but admire those amazingly pert buttocks as he left. I made a mental note to admire them more often, now I had full access. 

As promised, Jeeves returned very swiftly, holding a very small jar that he placed on the bedside cabinet. I wasn't quite sure what that was in aid of, but in this, as with everything else, I trusted Jeeves' judgement.

Jeeves then pounced on the recumbent Wooster form with renewed enthusiasm, and I hoped he would pay special attentions to my nether regions, which quite frankly were fully screaming to be touched again. However, he settled himself between my parted legs and embarked upon the most painfully exquisite and exquisitely painful trail of kisses that has ever been suffered by man or beast (I'd rather not think about the 'beast' part of that, but I'm sure it holds all the same). Those soft, artful lips began at the little hollow around my hip bone and kissed their way downwards, around to the inside of my thigh. He nuzzled gently, but just at the moment I could have practically begged him to move a little to the left, he stopped, and began again with the same maddening trail on the other side.

“Oh, Jeeves, please. I need..” I was whimpering now, but there was little I could do. I was utterly in his thrall.

“All in good time,” Jeeves whispered masterfully. He then descended once more, and I fully cried out at the sensation of his clever tongue licking me in that private place where a gentleman stores his _marbles_ as it were, and then more, lower...

\- “Oh my goodness!” I had never felt anything so divine, but my sudden cry caused Jeeves to still.

“Is this unpleasant for you, Bertram?”

“Unpleasant? Ha ha ha!” I was practically delirious by then. “No, no, please don't stop, please....” I lifted my legs to offer better access – they say that actions speak louder than words, and I most definitely did not want to risk being misunderstood at that point.

I almost felt Jeeves' satisfied smile against my most delicate parts of skin and then he resumed in earnest, darting something warm and wet around and seemingly _inside_ me. I was writhing on the bedsheets, gasping for air, but I was also vaguely aware that Jeeves had picked up the little jar from the bedside table and was touching its contents. He sat up again at that point and looked at me in a way that required my attention to be engaged through the dizzying cloud of lust.

“This may feel somewhat... unusual, as it will be your first time. Please tell me at any point if you would like me to stop. I want you to feel in control, Bertram.” Jeeves' voice was so tender, so loving, I could have practically wept at the sound. However, my heart was beating at five times its usual rate both from profound love and profound arousal, and it was the second clause that was particularly making itself felt just then.

“I understand, Jeeves. Thank you so very much, but please carry on,” I whimpered.

I understood Jeeves' quirk of the lips as an assent, and then watched as he placed one hand on my hip - steadying, comforting - and slipped the other between my legs. The tip of one elegant finger pressed inside and he stilled as I gasped, while gently stroking my stomach with the other hand. When I had relaxed a little he began moving, very slowly, but enough to establish a gentle rhythm.

I confess it felt somewhat peculiar at first – not really painful, as Jeeves was being so frightfully careful with me – but definitely unusual. I was pretty heavily focussed on what was going on in Southern regions, as I'm sure you can imagine, but at no point did the wonder and loveliness of the whole situation escape me. How could it, when Jeeves was gazing down upon me with love painted so clearly in his usually-guarded eyes? He watched me carefully for any sign of discomfort, as a museum curator might watch a Ming vase that was being moved to a new display case.

When Jeeves seemed to feel that I was ready, he withdrew and re-entered with an extra digit. It was a surprise at first, but my body accommodated quickly, and Jeeves' fingers within me soon felt welcome, satisfying... Almost as if there should be _more._

Without realising, I had begun to make low moaning sounds by this point, and was starting to push my hips backwards towards my lover, seeking a deeper connection. Jeeves smiled in satisfaction, and then he then did something absolutely extraordinary with those clever fingertips.

“Ahhhhhhh!!! Jeeves! What... what was that... inside? What did you do?” Tingles were surging through my entire body, and I was silently willing for him to do whatever he just did again, and preferably to not stop doing it until at least next Tuesday.

“There is a place within the male body that can provide particular pleasure when stimulated,” said Jeeves, rather smugly, “I might be able to caress it more effectively using something other than my fingers, if you would be willing?”

“Oh, yes please, Jeeves!” Frankly, I would have agreed to pretty much anything at that point, if it would give a repeat performance of _that_ sensation.

Jeeves' fingers slid out of me and I felt strangely bereft. However, I was quickly distracted by the sight of Jeeves' glorious length as he smoothed the contents of the small jar upon it, and my breath caught in my throat at the sheer wonder of what was going to happen next. 

Jeeves shuddered slightly as he finished his preparations, then lodged a pillow beneath my hips to improve the angle of things. He moved forward to cover my body with his and I could feel him nudging against me.

Well, tantalization like that very nearly sent yours truly into the yawning abyss all by itself, and Bertram Junior was certainly _feeling the pressure,_ shall we say. Consideration was one thing, but I was beginning to think that my beloved chap was something of a dashed _tease_. “Now, Jeeves, I need you now!” I cried, somewhat impressed at my ability to form words at all, under the circs.

“I would be delighted to oblige,” he said, somewhat raggedly, and pushed forwards into me in one long, delightfully smooth movement until we were joined together so deeply it finally felt like a proper representation of the love I felt for him.

Almost as if he could hear my thoughts, Jeeves bent to kiss me then, and whispered, “I do love you, Bertram. I love you with all my heart.”

I smiled and nodded and held him so close, reaching up from where I lay to hold his back, to stroke his beautiful face. Jeeves savoured the moment, and then arched backwards again.

“Shall we?” he asked mischievously. I didn't need to answer. 

Jeeves moved out from my body and then back in, establishing a delicious rhythm. I could hear his breathing becoming faster, more urgent, and I drank in the sight of him above me, a flush climbing his alabaster cheeks, and his eyes fluttering shut in passion and concentration. I savoured every moment, feeling a heat and a _need_ grow inside me, and I lifted my legs ever higher to afford him better access. Then he urged me to move slightly on the pillow, until-

\- Sparks flew behind my eyes and I groaned so loudly I might have screamed. Jeeves was touching _that place_ again, only now in such a wonderfully intimate way, and with mind-boggling, breath-stealing, hallucination-inducing frequency. Every. Single. Delicious. Stroke.

B. Wooster was pretty much lost to the universe at that point, soaring high above the world upon a giant eagle, or perhaps a winged dragon. I imagine that I must have looked properly wanton then, and truth be told, I'm pretty proud of the fact. 

Just when I would have thought it was impossible to feel anything more intense, Jeeves wrapped his hand around me between our bodies. A few deft strokes and I was teetering, just _there_. Jeeves thrust into me a few more times, the perspiration gathering across his noble brow, and biting his lower lip in the throes of ardour. Then, with one more twist, one last thrust, we both reached that glistening edge and fell together, down, down, into the bottomless pool of release.

I gasped for breath as I felt his warmth flood inside me and the last few shivers of my climax coarse through my body. Nothing in all my life had ever felt so perfect.

When it was over, Jeeves shakily withdrew and moved to lay beside me. We gazed at one another in awed silence for a minute or two, chests heaving and eyes blinking at the beauty of it all. 

Finally, for want of something better, I said, “I say, Jeeves. I say!”

“My sentiments entirely,” my lover replied.

“That was.. you were... you made me feel...”

“Quite so,” he agreed, a smile playing at his lips.

“I don't believe I had lived through all my life thus far without knowing quite how marvellous...”

“Assure me, my love, it was decidedly difficult to resist from introducing you to this activity much, much earlier,” said Jeeves, his tone a little bittersweet.

I moved to kiss him once more then, tenderly, meaning forever.

“Well, rest assured we can make up for lost time now, my love, for we have all the time in the world.”

~ _Fin_ ~


End file.
